Sex
the scents of her body and revel in them and surely she still did it all for him physically but now as much as he was conscious of trying to appear to be staring at her body as she moved above him he was also quite sure that he was tracking the pattern of hairline cracks that spread south-east to north-by-northwest across the plaster ceiling. 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_____________________________
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Raymond
Raymond