Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.
She kissed him quickly like a thief. She kissed him and the warmth of his lips momentarily distracted her, the temptation to leave them there was like a red rose left on the grave of her previous relationship. Red like the torn velvet of her tongue, her threatening inclinations to bleed poetry and verse. She shrugged it off as the easy way out, as uninteresting and unfufilling. She was tricky in bed, he would probably flounder his way to uninteresting climax then fall asleep kissing her breasts as if she liked that sort of thing. Her knowledge was an armoured car following tracks laid down by years of Leda-and-the-swan Stockholm syndrome relationships. It was hard and brittle as glass. He was not enough to shatter it.
Party tonight and my apartment’s still a minor disaster. I set aside last night to clean up but someone came over a day early by accident and swallowed all my time. They left around midnight and my lack of proper feeding put me to bed too soon after to get anything done. There are dishes left, minimal, and a floor buried under a complicated multi-coloured cloth pile. A livingroom that needs a sweep or a vaccuum, and I need to take a shower. I was caught in a hurricane of dust in the back room earlier and my neck still itches. I invision myself answering the door still dripping from the shower, towel in one hand broom in the other. It could happen. I still have to pick up the cake and carry it safely home on transit.