Speaking of food, I’d grabbed a giant-sized sea bass that I’ll prepare. I know I’ve got veggies enough for a salad. Think I’ll make a hot salad – strange the way I can taste but not feel the weather.
Guess I’ll get back to that story after supper. What time is it? Why do I still have electricity? Why do these official-looking people stop by? No one can smell my cooking?
Onward writing I guess.
“She couldn’t breathe. He hadn’t calculated her bringing her knee up as leverage to topple him. He didn’t fall but raised his head and mouth off hers. She grabbed whatever flesh she could of his ‘cheeks’, dug her fingertips in and slammed him into her like she was doing crunches. She slammed him again, again and again. He gulp-moaned as she did it again. She let out a guttural roar and he exploded inside but she didn’t release him instead shoving him in again and one final slam. She was done and let him go. He was completely limp, arms, legs, everything. With her leg still bent up she turned him tumbling him onto the floor leaving a trail of semen on the way down. “What”, he propped himself up with an elbow clutching the side of the bed looking at her as she fondled her breasts talking to herself. “This isn’t good, too soon”, but she moved quickly tumbling onto him. Perfect aim. His protest faded as she moved. He reached for her breast but his arms were too wobbly besides she didn’t want him to have the advantage of pushing her away. As if. She reached feeling him as she moved, he groaned eyes tearing letting his arms fall limp. She tightened her thighs holding him in place to ride the tide, waves reaching up then crashing digging deep, deep, and deeper again until it was time. She deliberately slammed, ground, around, around, slammed, ground, slammed, ground, over and over and over. She stopped. He tried to open his eyes but they rolled back in his head. “Goodnight sweet prince” she said patting him on the cheek, the one on his face.
He woke to the smells of cooking. His testicles…”
No, I don’t want to write that.
“He woke to the smells of cooking. Finding himself on the floor he turned toward the window to see the sun setting. Pulling himself up he staggered to the shower. He made it to the kitchen doorway and watched her breeze around full of life, full of energy. “Thank God” he thought, “I don’t think I could go another round.” “Feel like a movie” she asked as she danced passed him on the way to the fridge. Grabbing the white wine she filled his glass. “Sounds good to me” he smiled. “Have a nice nap?” A thrill pierced him as if he’d been shot with an arrow.”
As I wrote I felt a little twinge of excitement myself. Am I not dead yet or is it so even in death? I sat back to read everything over. Seems I’ve still got passion either way. If I’m not dead yet then where am I? Writing is at least a distraction from my peeling skin. Peeling skin… Where would I be for this to happen? Should I be somehow giving the living a clue? Like the movies should I be wrapping up unfinished business? Maybe a bus is going to pull up honking and the bus driver will say, “OK, it’s time. Did you get everything done you wanted to?” That’d be enough to startle the hell out of you. Instead of shopping maybe I should look around. Maybe I’ll remember something.
I waited until daylight.
As I was about to go out the door someone came in. That was a first. Two young boys stood in the foyer.
“I know she’s not dead. You can feel like someone’s living here. Doesn’t it feel like someone is standing right next to you?” As a matter of fact I was.
“How many days has it been?”
“Only one but she doesn’t leave without saying something. She wasn’t home all night, all yesterday and not here now. For her that’s unusual, real unusual.”
“It’s nice your grandma’s that dependable.”
“She is! She wants to make sure I don’t worry.”
Grandma! I’m his grandma? Only one day? Why do I feel like it’s been years, and those people! Am I seeing into the future? Did they hurt me?