Whiskey makes her crazy, allows her the creation of
a self she can then abandon within what she knows to be the limited confines of
her proscribed existence.
Beside her in the bed and himself already sated, Brother
Skunk’s audible breathing manifests his lack of consciousness; ache1
continues to watch him as, unwilling to relinquish her hold on the diminishing
itchy tail of her own thwarted climax, she walks her fingers across her stomach
and then inches them on to the still wet surface of her sex, quickly establishing
and sustaining the rhythm for the fastest route toward the eventual welcome orgasm,
something down into which she feels herself implode.
With each breath she sighs repeatedly while her
pulse decelerates, shivering as her skin now suddenly understands the
temperature of the room at this hour.
Looking down at the still sleeping Skunk, she tentatively
holds out a single tainted finger to just underneath his nose, and waits for his
face to register this in some manner. Frustrated at its unrelenting blank, she
pulls the finger slowly across the day-old stubble growing black from out his
exposed throat, and then rolls over to ease herself from out the bed.
On returning from the bathroom, she is surprised to
find him wide awake, propped up on both his elbows,
Skunk (concerned): You okay?
