by Cate Stevens-Davis
In the dark, her pale legs burn like street lamps or long white guide rails. He follows all the way to their end, pinning her to the crushed fabric with his piston hips. Later, when the fog clears from the windows and their breathing slows again, he rests one hand on her cold thigh and says, because he wants to have something to say, because he wants this not to be the last time, "I think this is the best place for us. I think, you and I, we work better tangled and cramped, taking up each other's spaces." She, blood thick with endorphins, smiles, stretches lips bruised by his mouth to say, "There's room between us now – room to stretch." And he moves to bridge the gap.
Cate Stevens-Davis is a graduate student in Pittsburgh, PA - broke and tired and having a grand time. She sporadically documents her exploits here, and recently founded Fat Hound Press.