He might as well have swirled me with his finger like chamomile tea because that’s how I always felt. And I always made sure his fingers were near mine.
“Can I have this?” I pose his skin to sin with mine. Nestle our fingers a love nest. And carve a cradle of his chest.
His face is happy with my arrangement.
It is another season of colored lights. Orange, I think. Our shoddy bar is dim and our drinks are downed.
And the air is a clean crisp that cuts our lungs before we breathe each other.
We will swirl together before he has to go home to his wife.
