MONDAY MORNING. A white apartment along I-95, a white boxy building encompassed by palm trees, a white sky of pure cloud overlooking that building, overlooking an overpass, in a suburban community, in Boca Raton.
You’ve earned this. This is what you get for your work, your trouble. (You could take this town, easily. Quite easily.)
You’re on the patio, listening to the radio, listening to the jerky drum beat of Radiohead’s Airbag, listening to your lover beckon for you to reenter the flat, listening attentively, listening and smiling at the sound of her voice, smiling at her pleading.
Back inside some low-fi VHS dream is playing on the TV, and she’s laying there on the carpeted floor, 145 pounds of Venezuelan ass and attitude, touching herself, watching you watching her from the other side of the patio’s sliding glass door. She reclines against the foot of the sofa and looks up at the ceiling. “Right here,” she says, “I want it right here.” She closes her eyes and bites her lip in anticipation of you, spreading her legs. And like any animal provided the right stimuli, you go. She gets on her knees, you loosen the shirt tie that you spent the last ten minutes doing up just right (fuck that) and G E T T O I T.