You savor the man’s soul fire

parade, tyee.ca, eaton centre, comic strip live, weezer, europe, bc focus, mp3, gigglechick, fire, goldielookin chain, enlightenedtheme for wordpress, directors, marijuana, movie reviews, queen, And something about his tone told you he had no choice. Even if it was to make one afternoon pass. One afternoon. soul Spent on this bed you are picking up your socks from. The man soul holds the door open with one hand, a towel loose around his waist. Family photographs line the mantel. You, on the other hand, have none on yours; you have no stories to tell. You are tired soul of talking and explaining. You were tempted to give your camera to a street urchin outside Bombay airport. Now it lies in the back of a closet. Still loaded with the pictures you took on your mother’s seventieth birthday. She’s seventy-five now. Being fucked has felt like being opened up. This much you now know. But you are thinking—what about love? Perhaps sex only curdles to love when someone takes a long look at what’s inside. But you are no apparent mess. You drive a nice car and pay a four-figure rent. You never buy Dockers on sale. You haven’t missed a day of work. But what about the evenings you make scrambled eggs with seven random spices?
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You savor the man’s sperm, a shade aromatic, as you walk back into fire the shower. fire You notice the man’s meticulously folded towels in the guest bathroom, the long line of jet-black ants against the sparkling basin. As if some girlfriend had broken a necklace of tiny opaque gems. You know you will be back, just fire as the ants will be in the heat. But for now, you cannot stand it anymore and you need to leave. Getting a parting drink of water, you consider the vacant space above the man’s stove. It’s the space created by a husband’s rage. This man starting to uninstall his microwave while the family doctor’s voice was still hanging in the air. His wife was driving home then, diagnosed and broken. You dress by the bed. Arriving home from the doctor, did his wife ask him for love? Patience? Hot coffee? None of the above. She wanted to fuck, Olga wanted to fuck, he told you.
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