raining outside…cold and grey…

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dirty end of the year. flat light, grey and a damp coldness. condensation running down windows. a long text sent in the night. she replies, it’s raining outside and I have a shower of sentences on my screen. he holds his hand up and feels a cold draft of air on his fingers and a sudden warmth in his palm. unknowingly one to the other each is smiling.

the cafe is empty. deserted by office and shop workers. he’s stepping down from espresso to Americano although he knows the hazards of a long drink when working on his script – amid profound and sacred thought comes the john call.
and just as he stands urinating, reading last night’s and previous layers of grafitti and trying to store thoughts of a proposed fetish games show in his mind she texts him:

Do you know something, the best place to target on a woman is the backs of her arms. Graze your teeth along the length of it, nibbling and biting gently. It’s like having cake and getting a kick in the arse at the same time. 😂

stomach empty in preparation for the gym. she always has that urge to drink coffee before she goes and wonders why she gets numbing headache.
bag packed. she’s noticed she’s the only one in the locker room who brings any additional kit in a Louis Vuitton bag. who makes the rules, who governs our thinking?

meeting later. later at his or hers. somewhere else. a plus.

let’s go to bed. sparkling tones of frankness and sweetness in her voice. polite somewhat kooky. I know it’s the middle of the afternoon but it’s practical, she suggests, stolen moments. we keep some clothes on and stay warm and you can tell me one of your made up stories and I’ll fall asleep and when you notice you’ll do the same. and at some point I will wake and stealthily slip from the bed to make you coffee and when I return with it you’ll magically wake because the odour is like an olfactory senses alarm clock. and we can watch Kuroneko and share the bowl of black soup. later we can be a confluence of arms and hands, legs and feet, necks and torso. you can lick my armpit and tell me whether I’ve worked out and sweated hard enough in the gym and the bottle of vodka we drank is no longer in my system.

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