hot angry bruises

She’s without panties or bra under her sweater and skirt for over an hour, an overture to the intimacy they both crave, a move deliberately designed to titillate and tease. They can’t find room for their intimacy anywhere. Cars are too tightly packed. Rooms are too messy or in places that breech etiquette. They look to more unique spaces, but even with enough privacy to copulate, those spaces leave no room for intimacy, just the quickest and most unsatisfying completion of the physical act. Then they make space, they’re determined, but there’s too little time left, and he’s not feeling good about things anymore, feeling too demanding and guilty of his desire, and she feels sick to her stomach, needing something to eat to settle her nausea. The moment is lost. Their search fruitless. Their desire spent. They take each other’s hands and go to the kitchen, and he makes her toast because his mother always prescribed toast with butter to settle an upset stomach. They sit at the table: she eating toast, he with his head in his hands, and they find that intimacy they craved in a shared smile.