She looks over at me, stands. “I think we’ll both just fit,” she says, and I am frozen, all newly acquired ability to speak gone. She pulls her silk slip over her head, lets it fall by her feet, small toes curling on the cold tile. Everything around her drains away. The only colour in the room pools in the pale purple of her small, hard nipples, in the half-moons beneath her eyes, in a long, thick scar, dark against her thigh. She stretches a finger towards me, beckons. I can see her heart throbbing in the shallow space between her ribs.
I try not to shake as she slides her hands under my jacket. Doesn’t break eye contact as she reaches under my sweater, and then my shirt, pulling them over my head. When her hands touch my skin every organ of my body flips over, and I reach out into empty air, looking for something to hold onto. She slips off my jeans, covered in paint and bits of apple, kneels as she slides them down my legs and I feel the only heat on my body spread across my upper lip. I touch beneath my nose and my fingers come away covered in blood.
She looks at me like I am something she wants, something she is hungry for, and places just the tip of her finger on her tongue. I have the feeling that my life is no longer my own.
