We meet each month, forgetting about broken bones and jilted promises, the day we swam naked in The Keys, her affairs, her shoe buying compulsions, the time her mother said I was the wrong one, the day I slammed my fist through the kitchen window, the grown children who no longer live here.
It’s not love we make, but a collision of breath and flesh, a battle of believing in each spiced minute that this is a way to restore ourselves, even though I never stay and our words are only sex cries.
On the way out, she throws a glass that shatters against the front wall, shards spraying my collar and hair. I don’t bother shaking them off. The moon is full, but it’s hiding behind a veil. Night, like a crypt keeper, whispers and moans, coiled around a partner of its own choosing.
Len Kuntz is an editor at the online magazine Literary Orphans. He’s been writing full-time for the last five years and has been really fortunate to have had a fair amount of work published in places like Boston Literary Magazine, PANK, Elimae and others.