In
that time between the picnic and their first sex, and sometimes after, he wrote
her name across the stretched flesh of his palm before masturbating, aroused
further by this queer and fetishistic voodoo.
Now,
with a full year gone since she had been entered in her own history of ash
(become complete again with the journals and children: the aborted first, its
subsequent and cataclysmic namesake which had in turn killed her), and with his penis again
accustomed to the singular function of infancy, its semen backlogged far beyond
the scrotum, he felt himself momentarily aligned within the universal blind
scurry at orgasm.
The
accompanying thought, to have his palm tattooed forever with her face, was lost
before he heard himself
Skunk:
As sure as shadows crawl across the earth.
and
not knowing why nor caring, his erection dismissed again, and gone.
