Blame the summer, it's been full of distraction.
“Put your hands around my neck,” she whispered, she moaned, she angled her crotch. They were fucking, they had been fucking for ten minutes now, and she could feel the choke in her throat. “Go on.”
He looked down at her and smiled like a goon, jutting away like a walrus lolloping across her icy traverses. He wrapped his arms around her so gently and kissed her on the earlobe, his arms a silver blanket around a car crash refugee. The feeling in her throat constricted.
“I know what happened you asshole, she told me, I fucking know,” she didn't say.
“Christ, I love you babe,” he did.
Across the street she could hear a buzzer ringing. His hands stroked her shoulders, he made a cough like a an engine turning over. The buzzer sounded again. No one was answering.
In her mind she wasn't lying underneath him in this bed, she was 13 years old, she was watching Aaron Nelson and Peter Wallace take turns in the playground, arm crooked and pushed onto the adam's apple of the other until they fainted, euphoric. She was watching the roll of the eyes and the sudden limpness, and she was wondering how that would feel. She was sat, a serious child, cross-legged before the mirror in a pleated tartan skirt, pushing the hollow of her throat with her thumbs, waiting for her own eyes to widen.
His fingers were in her hair now, she concentrated, held a lungful of breath. A bead of sweat gathered on his forehead and dripped onto her cheek; he thrashed harder. She thought of reaching into the fruit basket and her fingers bursting through the rotten flesh of a peach, the scent sudden and cloying.
She would sit there in front of the mirror and try, and then the wave of terror would hit, right at the point where the focus of the world would begin to narrow and the boundaries of her vision start to blur. She would let go in a hurry, fling her hands away from her neck, and sit panting and staring at herself, vaguely disgusted: coward.
They were in bed and they were fucking, they had been fucking for twelve minutes now. He was wrapped around her and whispering about love and she was trying to hold it in, waiting for the blackness, waiting for the euphoria. Her throat was on fire; his fingers were clutching the tops of her arms. She let the breath out with a gasp and he took this as affirmation – “Oh GOD!” He thrust himself in with a judder, face crumpled in a grimace, and ejaculated with a long, feral moan.
“That was incredible babe,” he said.
“I know,” she said.