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Show Woodworth/103 against the wind, flutes along the taut edges, ' . - she opens her eyes. His face, red and splotchy. Mouth in a grimace, head back.. She drags her cheek down the rough sand of his face, hides behind his ear. There are voices, somewhere calling her name, but his breath escapes, and she realizes that his is the only voice she can hear. He enters her, and they arch, both, -.-s' ^eads back, the whole long back^of his body strained, him on top of her, working her, kneading her, stabbing and pushing and moulding her until there is a crack of light, and Ruth whispers, "Have we forgotten anything? Were those books his?" and she rolls on top of him again, urgently, the sliding gone. She straightens, runs her fingers down his chest, and begins methodically beating the voices back. His lips curl, flex, release, flex until seams buckle, steel heaves and jerks. She falls toward him, and they are both falling, spiralling, down into a complete, perfect silence.' In time, she hears their breathing through silence, and, later, Gary's "mmmmm". She can feel his throat vibrate against her cheek. She keeps her eyes closed. "Whew," Gary says, and she knows there is no more silence. She rolls away. "It's time for me to think about getting home," he says, lifting his arm, dropping it across his eyes. "Me, too," she says. "Home." The word is too loud. Too final. Depression wells up in her. Use them and throw them away. They think they are so special, all of them. But at least she had it her way. He might use her, but she used him, too. The sounds of the subway, a near-miss accident on the street. Time for plans. What restaurant for dinner? What movie? Last errand. |