Monica       *

She was cooking, standing in her somewhat dirty kitchenette in a short tan skirt and stockings with a run down the bottom of her right leg. Egg timer beeping, kettle whistling softly, slightly acrid, slightly inviting smoke rising out of the stove from an invisible casserole dish. I could see a strand of her hair dangling behind her ear. glistening under the stove light. I felt sick. She kept bending over to scratch her left calf and when she did I saw the shadow between her legs grow shorter, and it seemed the warmth in the kitchen grew from there.

She had a cat, black and brown and white with big ugly eyes and droopy ears. He was howling intermittently, looking mindlessly at a full food dish.

We ate on the floor, things still boxed up in corners, long shadows cast across the room, her face. The TV was on its stand, but not plugged in, and the cat was weaving around the room jumping at the sound of the dripping rain outside.

That night, later, when even in the summer warmth a chill crept in through the window pane, we made love in bed under the old cotton sheets and rough blankets. Not a word was spoken for hours before and after. I remember that night by her face, by the small mascara rub on her cheek, by the cut on my left ring finger and the nagging pain in my elbow I got from carrying boxes into that house. Her breasts felt glassy against mine, her stomach oily and slick as she hovered over me and licked me between my legs, my face engulfed by her wetness that smelled fresh and sweetened.