Rain splatters the windowpane. I look ahead into the mirror over the bed, but can't see her face: Just her golden hair, rhythmically swinging as I clamp fingers into her soft cheeks and accelerate, pumping her doggy style:
After three hours, she dried.
During my refractory period, Annie taught me the words to a children's song; we sang it together. I remember some of the rhyme words:
...Il pleut
...la tortue...
When she'd opened the door to me, the slanting late afternoon light had picked out lines of strain, lines of thought, lines of age on her forehead.
Now, the rain's gone. I stand, reach for the clothes I left hung over the back of the chair: Annie's sprawled out, strong legs open: The light from the lamp on the nightstand smuts the crease in her belly.
I hope Annie's remained
la bonne bourgeiose. I imagine her owning a condo, though with her work ethic she could have bought an apartment block. Last time I was up in the French Quarter, I saw a combination Internet café/hairdressing establishment called Annie's and walked in, but even if that was where she put her money, she wasn't there.
{280}
>> posted by John Psmyth
• 2/16/2005 04:14:00 PM
•
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