I’ve practically lived here these last two weeks. I am lean, almost prepubescent and like a precocious child I like playing house with him. As I stretch my bent silhouette looks lovely. I imagine myself to be an object on display. I prefer the front of the apartment to the back. He drapes long curtains for privacy, closes them tightly when he fucks in the back of the shop space on a lowset bed. He sets chairs and lamps he sells in their empty space. The apartment is hybrid, first built as a shop with windows meant for a store front- extraordinarily large, front thrusting. The next morning I wake up three hours before him and stretch by the front windows.
#GIRLS FUCK HIGHWAY UNDERPASS SKIN#
The dress is completely sheer, skin toned. He seems bored so I begin saying dumb shit. I like its sweet green color but hate the taste. He then insists on ordering pistachio gelato. We order a whole chicken, calamari, pasta and its all too much. He offers to help her open it which is an asshole move. Do you wanna go all out? I assume he’s paying. What do you mean by cringe? I ask what I’ve asked before. That night at dinner, he had started repeating himself. He hated this and I knew it but maybe he’d see it as a joke or something I don’t know. That pissed me off and I started some vain attempts to appeal to my masters degree, to my period pain and some sort of unique feminine suffering as a source of my genius. I want to cry again but instead I roll over, like the dog. He kneels down, pulls my arms forward and presses my ass towards the ground. His cool gray eyes settle down towards me.
But his thick form is elegant- leaned back, long legs crossed in slacks and undershirt. His stubble is subtle, dirty blonde, and lazy looking. His jaw slopes and bends like a southern highway overpass, like I35 at night. As my core contracts the cold drains from my skin.I breathe and sweat. This dread is new, only a day or two old and uniquely isolated in my center. I want him to hear me saying this and think I’m interesting. He offers to play me a song he wrote he doesn’t remember the words to but can’t find his guitar. He’s up on the purple couch and I do not know what he is thinking.
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