I am over him - my legs pinning his own in one of the awkward
positions that cars force them in. He places his hand shyly
on my haunches and I turn to him, his eyes - behind his thin frames -
the only light in the coal-color of night and I snatch off his baseball cap
and top myself off with it. He only stares at me, the way you would
something unfamiliar. I lean my head on the crook of his neck, I want him
to feel that I want him, though I don't. He makes no more moves. (my skin
under his palm. warm. the whiteness of the windows. stubbled legs. toughness
of clothes.) I reach for his hand, slipping my long fingers
between his. I admire our hands together, or maybe just my own. I wish
he would place a finger or two between my legs instead. "You know,
I really like you," he whispers on my neck and I squeeze his hand.
"I like you too," I soothe back; meanwhile my vagina sighs.
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