COMING ALIVE

My mouth is wet against her neck. Her taste-the oil, the sweat, whatever it is-it’s like lime sucked right off the rind. And I can’t get enough.

But I’m not really there. I’m far away, up in the rafters somewhere. I’m watching him turn her over. She’s moaning, waking up with his tongue in her mouth. His hands scrape down her bare back, he claws away her shorts, and then he presses himself into place when she asks, “Are you awake?”

“Uh...yes,” he says with a greedy self-assurance. He goes to penetrate, but she stops him. She can tell. Sitting up, she watches as the space behind his eyes begins to light up. The grin goes away. He recedes. I come to.

We’re in my bedroom. It’s three on a Saturday morning and the air conditioner is sputtering. We’ve been asleep for about