She had black satin sheets, what the hell? A south-facing window too, on the second floor, where the low-angled winter sun was coming in across my feet, which I always keep outside the covers so they don't sweat. She was all curved and pale pinkish Irish Catholic and quietly dozing with a lopsided swollen self-bit drunken lip. Everything smelled of sex and whiskey breath. When my eyes focussed, which they did occasionally, as I tried to look at the pebbled plaster ceiling, they still hurt, and I spent a good portion of my time that morning wondering why I'd ended up at her place and not mine.

I had to spit out about six of her various hairs. She approached me the night before, and I knew her, I guess, at least well enough to get into her unmentionables, or whatever. More like she got into mine, now that I think about it. We were talking for far too long before I made a move, or she did, maybe. Is a shirt a move? She told me the same story every night. She told me the same and I listened because I heard the same thing I want you in her same story every day. And those sheets, with her body standing out, it was pretty tacky let me tell you. Like one of those black velvet Elvises except maybe with Miss America 1922 on it. She tasted like no-flavor, her mouth did, and I liked that.

The rest of the bottle we never got around to finishing, thank god, was on the night stand. How it made it through the night I don't know but it'd have to go anyway since the cap was off. Off-brand anyway. I never met anyone so open, she fucked like a man, that is, whenever wherever. Just slip in, practically. I was spoiled and I didn't really want to talk to her that much anyway because she told the same story every day when we clinked our knives in swordfish steaks at Casa Nostra. And because I didn't talk to her there was no problem taking advantage of her low self esteem, which manifested itself in those black satin sheets, where like Madonna she told bedtime stories, the same ones every night. She refused to touch her clit though, because she thought like all good catholics that pleasure is evil, but she wasn't thinking any such thing at the moment with her Irish Catholic hair in her blissfully unconscious eyes and her smooth curving arms tuck up under her pillow.

Probably she was thinking about her boss who she had wanted to fuck but didn't because she refused to have more than one lover at at time. Probably a paternity thing. I was thinking about my ex-boss who I'd fucked right before I fucked her over on the last project I worked on at that place over on Templeton, you know, that interior enginerring place with the unreasonably low ceilings and the superold rould clear incandescents like gaslight and ancient metal desks under which rolled those metal armed office chairs from before the second World War.

I tried to sit up but felt the blood rush out of my skull and into my esophagis, where it lodged and made me choke a bit as it was replaced by what must have been baking soda and maybe some insult to add to my injury. I hoped my liver was still intact anyway. She had this habit of giving me playful punched under my ribs and she was a lefty and she wasn't a little woman either which is one reason I'd liked her, because it didn't feel like nothing when I was humping away, let me tell you. I'm not a small dude, and a lady who doesn't move around, and she didn't, needs to make herself known one way or another. I guess physical, what do you call it, stature is one way. Besides it was strangely appropriate with that Irish Catholic skin on those black satin sheets with my feet freezing and the low-angled sun turning toward my eyes in a way that was going to become a problem pretty soon and the smell of sex in my nose mixed with old aired open whiskey, and everything so still. Even with my inner ear slopping about like I'd twirled in one of the ex-boss' office swivel chairs and tried to come to a rest and knew I couldn't stant, like you can't when you're dizzy. Like a still life in three dimensions. But I tell this story every morning.


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