She sits upright in the bed with the midmorning light filtering through the clouds and blinds onto her sweat dewed skin. Her own sweat and his.
And on the other side of the bed he’s sleeping covered with her excess sheets and the gunpowder scent of cigarettes. His arm is against her hand and she wants this to last, but she knows it’s like the dozen other times they’ve been in these same positions. She knows that in the expanse of her life this is but a flash.
As romantic as it may be, the moment passes in no time. It’s in the struggle for closeness. Then fumbling and the archaic motions and meeting of bodies. In the moments between he loves her and they’re insatiably locked together. Those same instances give way to a moment of clarity. That this is the perfect fit.
Like a bullet and gun.
Regardless of the duration of the encounter, the end is inevitable. Even if she sighs in perfect time with his movements and moans right there’s no bonus time rewarded. Real life doesn’t have to reward for efforts and improvement. Sometimes you do something over and over with the same, horrible, lonely result.
In the morning, it’s over. The flash of the muzzle, the kick and bucking recoil and the bullet’s expelled.
She sits upright in the bed as he sleeps next to her and wonders how many times she can pull that trigger before it dry fires.
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