Dark gray short sleeved shirt and off blue slacks, bright yellow tie loosened at my neck, I sit at a metal table. An uncomfortable silence weighted like a hammer overhead, a heavy swinging motion implied and you come out wearing a summer dress, loose against your exfoliated skin. Pedicure flip flops slap against your heels. Such effort for casualness, this Sunday afternoon that I have grown allergic to, a tired smile and falling into my arms, weary embraces carrying significance. It buries us in southern winds and pine needles. Soon our autumn amorous encounters must end, have to end, have ended. They are tangerine and textured, floating like dead skin in the air between us.

We have broken rules- Like when you would rest your head on my lap, my fingers through your hair, our silent moments where we pretend others aren’t watching, judging. And something is stolen through our carelessness. I can see it slipping away even if I cannot recognize it, name or grasp it. Never any innocence, or nights you did not find yourself woken by the pulsing inside your belly, yellow cotton panties beneath your nightgown and your fingers reaching, caressing and wandering in half sleep, feeling your heart flutter, your mind wandering, turning to mush.

We share half a bar of dark chocolate, rubbing each piece with softened fingers, snapped them between our teeth, sharing them like clandestine kisses, salty sweetness, a melting. It makes your eyes glow. It is this I will miss most. Watching the sun drop through half remembered clouds, misty and unremarkable, I can invent us out of this, back in the front seat of your car, a smell like whiskey (but sweeter) between your breasts, a glistening trail my lips follow. You taste of possibility. Sounds of the city at night outside the glass and steel, passers by we pretend are oblivious. You breathe heavy. I breathe you in.



About Ryan Carty

There are some who call me, Tim?

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