Bruises

I have always assumed that you were the type to demand a little vigor in love-making, reason why you never complained about the bruises on your wrist. So when I undid your button downs out of curiosity and saw a fresh purple mark the size of a burger patty, I knew instantly, why you said yes to my invitation.

She threw a glass bowl at you, you said. There was no use trying to dodge it because you wanted the pain and would take it willingly anytime. I said your girlfriend was an idiot for wasting the bowl and you chuckled at my prodigious show of warmth.

We took turns drinking from the bottle. Clearly, there were some things that we lacked, like a proper glass. You like wine with high tannins—it’s almost a metaphor for every woman you have ever been with. She was no exception. In fact, she had the most pucker power.

After daybreak, we walked back to the log cabin and tried to sleep in separate rooms. Minutes later, you sat by me again and we smoked cigarettes for breakfast. I clearly recall you were smiling.

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