Her walls are painted the color of blood, hung with nude paintings of women with art deco sculpted hair, rosy cheeks and pink nipples hard and smooth. Without the wandering folds of an aureola firmed under tongue. Without any kind of spirit, they are flat and dead, like marble, like the cold wet sex of a rubber fuck doll.
We sit together in hard silence now. Both of us waiting on the edge of something. She folds herself up, crossing legs, crossing arms and stops talking. Just looks at me and I can feel what she has to say pressing out against the flesh of her stomach, of her chest. Pressing out across the space between us and it
Location
California