At The Inn

She was standing on snow. In front of it and behind. Her ass spread on the warm hood of her tercel. The rest of her waiting for something to happen.

The world is a coin toss. Sex is a lottery. Winning isn't the object. It's all about believing that someday you might. He placed a brown paper bag beside the snow mound under her feet. Wine, beer and snacks. The romance of a drunk man. The valentine of a perpetual bachelor.

The room was large, but had never known empty. She was barely old enough not to hate herself anymore. Maybe he knew that, but she didn't think he was that clever.

The beer was bitter. The lubricant was icy. As she dug for his motive. The words were there. In fragments of what she had meant to say. Sedate gods on the edge of failing heavens. The flush of missing skin tempting. Loose bandages on nervous wounds.

He was ready a long time ago. She still wasn't. The echo of skin repeating loudly as she tried to explain to herself what was happening.

The alarm going off so loud that she had to assume she'd already woken up.

The door was open as he took his piss. Like she hadn't been there at all.

Banana peels in the dresser. All her skin trying to regain its balance. Debating whether gravity actually exists.