in french he says what i can only translate enough to sound like your hair smells like silk sometimes and while we have sloppy sex on the kitchen counter i'm more interested in trying to decipher the ingredients sideways and through only one open left eye under the unflattering bright lights of the sugar free vanilla syrup bottle that appears rarely if ever used. and i know he's not greedy. so i try to concentrate. i purr. coo. press my forehead into his adam's apple. dead valves of pressure filled lost in the viscous syrup words. i can't fake my way through this one. i fill my head with clothes. knee high black heeled boots. the new skirt i bought and still haven't worn. fish net stockings. sex with you. sex with you. sex with you. until in another world i scream the contents of the counter onto the floor and we break the sugar bowl. it's enough. then. for him to go.


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