Not Quite True
His shaven face on her freckled shoulder, his left arm under her pillow, and his right hand curled in her left, dead center on her chest, each glow with the two a.m. street lights from 14 floors below.
His thigh lifts perpendicular to hers, its demanding hairs the barrier between, and his face nuzzles down harder. His fingers glide across her face to bring sleep, an echo of her youth.
Are you trans
She waits, eyes still closed
Nobody move:
- no, the eyelashes clamped closed on the porcelain shoulder,
- no, the scent of refillable K- cups, used grounds still inside, and sweat staining the air,
- no, the dual laptops slide under the bed,
- no, the single-life future together calls,
- no, the detritus of cereal scattering to coat either side of the bed, no signs of milk,
- no, the way people congratulate her on whipping her partner, which creates a blush across the not-yet-speckled cheekbones,
- no, the microwave ramen waiting to heated be at ten minutes for the water and five minutes for the noodles,
- no, pile of her clothes thrown over a wig that recently turned two weeks old, the same age as a newly discovered eldritch likeness to a mother,
- no, the kitten peering out of the suicide-watch-sealed window, down to the sirens of one way traffic,
- no, the best part, both phones finally on the table.
I say no.
She exhales
Good.
I can't date a woman.
She inhales and forgets to let go.
Good.
notes
My comments! Requiring comments was such a lovely idea! And workshop too! Excellent.
Posted Nov 1, 2022, 12:26 AM UTC
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