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She takes his hand and places her own inside, like a proper slow dance on his chest, but his other hand creeps sweetly along her back, in a way that she has forgotten how it could feel, like a natural warm movement of red and white blood cells, parting in pangs and hormones asunder. Glow and blow. Jesse holds her.
Do you know this song? She asks. No. No? It’s my favorite. They move like her breasts are attached at his chest in slow circles, like dreamy milky flesh. They slow dance alone in the motel room and she normally doesn’t say yes to strangers but she remembers approaching him thinking, you look like someone I already know or someone I should know, and his hair is a mess. His face unshaven. She says, what if, I’m Wendy? Jesse wants to ask her excuse me, but stops when she immediately bites his ear and kisses him there, like sucked oysters from their shells. Shut up. She says. It’s really not me. Whispering sex into his ear. Try something new. She says. I’m serious. Try something new. |