She turns you over, always the doer, pressing herself against your ass, her cunt, warm and exciting. She knows that pressing against you with her imaginary cock drives you wild and reaches around to touch you, her large hand working familiarly in your lower regions.
She makes love to you as you gaze at the wall, where there is nothing, your side, where there is no one. You live on a large bed, the two of you, most of your life centered here. Décor does not interest you. You have each other. She returns from work, unstraps her holster on which are a hammer and screw driver, yanks off her tee, unzips her jeans, slides off her hiking boots and finds you, rushing toward you like a shower.
She smells like wood shavings and has white paint licks on her forehead, neck and forearms. Her hands are dry but clean. Her pale body, long and freckled. You close your eyes as she mounts you, her soft hair brushing your forehead, sealing your eyes. Her strong arms embracing you, her tongue finding you, caressing you everywhere. Always you feel her deep inside.
This is how you will remember her, years after you have left her for the sole reason you could not trust yourself loving anyone that much. Full of ignorance and arrogance, your prized possessions then, you strutted the world, sure that around every corner you would find an equivalent of that one who pulled you out of yourself into her hungry mouth promising to love you again and again and whose hands never left or forgave you.
Arya F. Jenkins’s poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction have been published in many journals and zines. Her short story collection BLUE SONGS IN AN OPEN KEY (Fomite, 2018) is here.