Wild One
They entered the open-brick condo eager to rip each other’s clothes off. Maria rubbed the front of Eric’s kakis, while he slid his fingers up her red bubble skirt. He tore her white blouse and sucked from her shoulders down to her fingertips. Maria unbelted Eric’s pants and chucked the leather across the room.
A Tumor in April
April and Ben met again years later. She was leaving an office building; he was boarding a train. They swooned and dated. But something was different.
Carpe
His dad used to tell him (when the man was sober) that life gave you three choices: fail and wallow in it, coast and be unfulfilled, or swing for the fences and maybe—MAYBE—do something notable.
Dad seemed to be OK with the first.
Swing for the fences. Seize the day.
Wild One
They entered the open-brick condo eager to rip each other’s clothes off. Maria rubbed the front of Eric’s kakis, while he slid his fingers up her red bubble skirt. He tore her white blouse and sucked from her shoulders down to her fingertips. Maria unbelted Eric’s pants and chucked the leather across the room.
The stomach tightens and sinks.
The heart and lungs follow.
It’s a confounding reaction to a receipt of affection.
It’s familiar, and, therefore, oddly comforting.
But familiarity can be a curse.
A cursed reminder of what once went wrong when you were just trying to do things right this time.
This time it’ll be different, you say.
Why? You’re different, but what are you doing differently?