If you were to ask me my two most reliable pleasures, I would be able to bark back a certain answer — the way that little children do, when you ask them what they want to eat, or what they dreamt last night. I would tell you that they are reading and swimming, mostly because they have the same rhythm, all disembodied and steady.
“Those cruises are crazy, I was on one actually. There was an alarm and we all had to get into boats. It was crazy, man.”
Kristen and I are having a hostel roof special in Seville. Paella and alcoholic punch up here for seven euros. What the fuck.
Late at night, while my partner is watching basketball in the other room, I excuse myself to play video games. This is a half-truth. Instead of playing one of the many games I’ve purchased and queued up, I open my computer and go to a familiar bookmarked page: dolldivine.com.
Brita and I start driving north. Our final destination is Salem, Oregon. The sky is yellow and the mountain ridges are a jagged threat on the skyline. Wildfire.
You stand at the sink again, scrubbing again, the basin filled three-quarters with warm soapy water, your panties bobbing in the suds, your white knuckles squeeze whiter, twist the crotch, pumice stone across the folds back and forth a washboard rhythm...
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