Tokyo Rumba

Yuki suddenly bends at the waist, forcing my body into a dip. Dizzy, my world teeters one way and then slowly starts wobbling back the other. My exhausted legs clutch his hips but the slippery fabric of his pants is unstable and my arms, weakened, can’t hold on. My panicked little squeak ends with an embarrassingly loud grunt when I thump onto my bed. Yuki rides me down, straddling me, pinning me.

“Thought I dropped you, huh?” Yuki is laughing at me, imitating my panicked bleating.

Breathless, I look up at him, a man-child drawn from late summer shadows and glazed in a color that is nameless and slowly fading. He is smiling at me. Something huge and sweet warms my soul. I kiss his curved mouth softly, reverently. In time, if I remember nothing else, I will remember this taste, how sweet, the taste of his kiss on my lips.

And I will also remember how, when--in retaliation for mocking me--I catch as much of the fine hair on his arm as I can between my front teeth and pull…Yuki squeals like a girl.