Billows Indiscriminate

I picture a fit man walking proudly; displaying the calculated persona of someone who, when faced with danger, smites it. An aire of the untouchable, yet a wiff of repent. In meeting with a future partner he declares: I'm glad you met me.

Upon receiving this opening, I wouldn't call it a barrage, perhaps a volley; she responds in kind. Admitting that she'd noticed him while demurely bluffing what he believes to be pocket Aces.

Ah courting. The perilous dance of the overconfident and the easily attainable, matching wits like a game of Memory. Swiftly parried strikes, swashed to entertain are met with a malleable counteroffensive stance.

Dialogue ensues, conversational tones imbued with saturated nonchalance. They've been there before poised to strike and if the tone hardens their shields will raise and grasps will quiver precariously over the handles of broad swords.
As time passes.

They have reaped their decadence numerous times. Now. The sweat soaking panting fulfillment their genitals retreat. Sharing covers and glancing about in the tar stained crepuscule, smoking film foisted post coital Camels, their sighs belie the orgasms. Thev've been together since their first talk and knowing that all they wish now is that they could.

They rarely share a mourning together. Their distance dictated by work schedules and different directions. She vacates the sheets leaving him placated and gluttonous, empty of his need. She's lacking a connection, a full circuit as she dials up the car stereo and her phone. Physically satiated and with that mental hunger searching for old connections; she plots old conquests into conciliatory viewpoints and uses their affirmations to restock the armory.

He roles over hard. He rolls over hard with last nite and coughs a congrats to the room. New boxers and a bite ta eat, before it happens again, he figures. Before it happens again he figures and stretching to the fridge he feels a flick he's ignored before. Cold leftovers then to the bathroom and he scrubs the bicuspids, mollifying molars he answers his inquiring incisors.

One month in and everlasting.

He'd gotten sick before, be he ached this time. A spine. A spine climbing bother that could only be assuaged one way. Decadence had become a daily cadence sung, or rather a run of the mill repast like breaking a fast. Without that bite he felt the edge. He suffered, putting more into self destruction than he did repletion. Now when his coffers were stoked, which they rarely were, the billows were indiscriminate.

She'd perched, talons groping the last inevitable battle, like a buzzard tying its bib for some carrion. She'd sharpened her claws upon a whetstone that rolled forever forward. Razor sharp her senses. Her senses honed, she waited: Stropping her blade continuously.

When the digital sickles emerged they argued for death but cut for a stalemate. Caught unaware, groping for a weapon of his own, he recoiled and retreated. White flag tucked neatly like severance package inside the manilla, licking his wounds like the envelope, he was eviscerated.

I picture a man wiping up after the trauma. Mop soaked then wrung out in routine, another casual onlooker upon the demise of a unit. Whistling whilst restocking the shelves, adding elbow grease to the coagulate where necessary, he notices a nurse. As he steals a quick glance in the stainless and inquires about her day, her pulse quickens and her guard evaporates.

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