Feeling soft fulfilled bereft of emptiness. She, lying there on the moist sheets. Lying
naked on her back, looking at him. Feeling hot inside and cool in the breeze of hot
summer night. Taught flat stomach and firm ripe flesh of young girl, wet and burning
Looking at him sitting on the edge of the bed in the black night. Sitting there naked
facing the window, smoking now. Both of them breathing normal now, easy peaceful.
Full of themselves and each other. The fullness of one emptying into the other,
draining away worry that was there before now. Washed away.
The comforting smell of cigarette smoke in the room, seeing his face without seeing
through the dark, knowing his looks in her mind. The night is young, the world is
young and belonging to them. Everyone else a foreigner in their world.
Soft blue light glowing from the stereo receiver without sound. Just to have glowing
light in the dark little room. In the tower of the old mansion turned seedy apartment
house. Their little nest on top the world. So small the room there isn’t even a chair,
just bed against the railing where stairs lead down below them to where the rest of
the world lives.
The four, ten-foot high windows in the four walls of the little tower room. The only
breeze in hot summer night comes into these open windows and passes through
their little room pitch black in the night, so gently you barely feel it. Only the
coolness where everything else is hot and stale and unalive.
He, sitting there at the window seeing her without seeing, knowing she is there from
sound of her voice, outline of her shadow, warmth of her young girl body.
“What is it that people do?” he asks.
Him from the poor family of free-thinkers, she from middle-class who try not to
wonder about things like that. It fascinates her, attracts her to him, someone so
young with such thoughts as these. Thoughts she has never imagined before.
“They screw” she says, giggling the giddiness of abandonment.