Monday 12/11/2006 11:41:00 PM

He was wearing watermelon shoes. Counting the seeds. As if love could speak sign language to translate the interstice between action and speech. Stubborn and contrite vagaries spat from his fingers. As he counted how many. How much. If. Need could be a satisfactory substitute for love.

Indicted. Sammy bent down and snatched the wrapper off of her listening. More than hungry enough to welcome left overs. In the smile between her legs as they danced against the tug of gravity. Emboldened by the ripple of her flesh as it struggled to let him enter. He began to sprint. She chased the emptiness with a grunt and began preparing for the end. Imagining his eruption in her head. Similar to throwing up.

She said she was ready, but he hadn't heard. Or tried to. The debt in her voice. Or seen how pale the alternative. She was always ready. And never was. For the next move. The stalemate that they were.

In all the little ways that never mattered until it was over.

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