A shallow river carved through the dry parts of his brain, lubricating lost sensations, letting a riot of life loose in still pools that gathered on newly black mud, his sight now having rushed beyond her stomach, breasts, neck, face, arms, hair, and found its way to safer places, the way he had driven discretely imagined cars down glorious boulevards that ran in the cracks between classroom floor tiles in order to escape life as a student.
She moaned orgasmically and the combination of her muscle contractions and his decision to relax and then run let him go off as well and he lay there as she sprawled across him and thought only about the old joke about the statue of the famous Russian-Roulette champion: On the pedestal, underneath his name, was his record, "73-1."
Was that really a joke?
On his way back to work he stopped at the Barnes and Noble. Went into the bathroom. Washed his hands and face with antiseptic smelling liquid soap. Bought odd French mints, a container of frighteningly bitter Starbucks coffee, a two-dollar discounted book about the
She took a fast shower, as she always did. Got dressed. Went back to the school she worked in. Spent much of the afternoon flirting with the math teacher who also coached wrestling.
© 2005 by Ira Socol_____________________________