In the humid space of the dining room, I can scarcely meet your eyes for fear of trembling or worse, of betraying a memory of what noises we channeled last night, of how you shuddered in afterglow, barely perceptible, spine-curling currents rippling a wad of sheets, my fingers in yours, your thighs on mine, the curtains drawn. I drag a fork through eggs, shift in my seat, blow on my coffee, so as not to remember too fully what rapture we conjured, how you gasped piano when I took you too greedily into my mouth, how I groaned against your arched, woolen instep, no, these thoughts will not do, not now, not when I sit next to someone creasing open the New York Times while someone else asks me if I saw Mars last night. Why yes, I don’t say, I visited the red planet, plus a few other galaxies besides.
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