In the morning she said “Thank you,” as she might have said if she had paid him for the incredible sex the night before.
He went to kiss her on her fuchsia-painted lips but she turned away, causing him to kiss her hair instead, which smelled of stale hairspray and sweat.
She was not old but older than he, so perhaps there was this air of pity, presumed or otherwise, that she felt a part of, although it might not have even been coming from him. It was just there, in the air, as if it were charity: his lay, the spooning, rear-entry position that she would never know was his trademark, a rather large manly cock parting her labia with great certainty, and balls, nice balls, and not too hairy a body, the way his gentle but manly hands would secure her waist and not forget a nipple or even a reach around to her clit helping her orgasm. It was a little like picking the deluxe package at the car wash.
She did look a little old though, tired. She had been through things: life, death, marriages and divorces, and was grateful for this hook-up, one she remarked to him was “poetic”.
He did not know what that really meant, either to her or to him, and just because she said it he didn’t necessarily believe it or if behind it there was even any kind of understanding or conviction. He decided it was probably a good thing though and could accept it for what it was.
He knew how to please a woman and if that was poetic than poetic it was. Their bodies interested him a great deal, and he took pleasure in pleasuring them. Their shapes and nuances were visually and tactilely stimulating, although he never understood their words or their minds.
She left like the rest of them did and it was neither a good or a bad thing. Maybe that was poetry.