Gauzy sunbeams. Broken piano keys. Lipstick on his neck and collarbone. Lint. Stale crumbs from last night’s microwaved corndogs. Half of an oboe. Crumpled sheet music strewn around. Aching bones. The floor. Guitar strings. A fair amount of living room dust.
He shoved her away and grabbed the lipstick-stained shirt lying halfway under the couch. School started in six days. Where were his pants? Where were hers?
He wouldn’t let her stay for breakfast. “Didn’t you have fun?” she protested.
Yes, he thought as he slammed the door on her. That’s what scared him. Fun wasn’t allowed.
Drew Martyn 6 months ago
What I'm trying to work out is are these teachers or students. Or one of each? Probably doesn't matter, but I'm nosey!