Twist

The bed is just a mattress on the floor, but it has served it’s time well, the scene of many a tryst and tear. She’s sitting there now, on the edge, her shoulders slumped, her body facing me across the room, head turned, looking at the wall to her left. We’re both naked and sweaty; it’s a hot August day. Cities are always hot in August. That’s why Italians vacation in August. But I digress… We started furious, on a dead run, no slow building toward the inevitable joining. In the midst, passion turned to anger, sweat to ice, and the taste in our mouths to iron. What was the twist? An old one: the wrong name whispered. By me.