Those August Afternoons
The air thick as a fat woman's arm embraces me rolling and hanging. In desperation, sounds wade through clogged arteries bleeding little bits here there when they reach me they are phantoms. Through a smorgasbord of hot hands pressing me the dog spies me with one eye. She could be dead. It's not that I don't care I'm unable to move until you entice me to fuck beneath the fan in the bedroom. As if the heat we produce might kill us too.