revolutionaries wanted


Her arms are tight around him. Her face, buried close against the nape of his neck. Her chest tight against his back, her legs draw up behind his with her knees snug, locked into the back of his. Her long, wispy blond hair is in her face, with her eyes fluttering behind closed eyelids. The eyelashes are long and black and thick. Her skin, pale and lightly freckled with golden spots. Her nose is small. Her lips are pink and slightly parted, breathing evenly, warmly against the back of his neck. She’s soft, young, her body still clinging to what little teenage fat she still had left. The room, white, bright, and empty; she clings to him amongst the white sheets, an island amongst a sea of rough, worn, hardwood floor. Four in the afternoon, babies don’t sleep this well. The pursuit of pleasure is tiresome. In the warmth of the room, the blinding whiteness, she stirs and opens her eyes slowly. She sits up and looks at him, with his slightly long, black hair. She slips out of the bed carefully, the bra she’s wearing stands in striking black lines that cut through all the whiteness. Contrast. Stand out. She goes to the washroom, long white legs and all, and sits herself down on the toilet. She finds her black panties hanging from the towel rack and slips them on when she’s done. She wanders back to the bed and snuggles up behind him. The pursuit of pleasure. It’s tiresome.

He grabs the clear plastic jug and rinses it out in the sink. He starches his bare stomach. He goes into the refrigerator and grabs a can of frozen raspberry concentrate. Opens the can, he spills the contents into jug. The log of juice splatters against the bottom of the jug and there’s blowback. He flinches as the red stuff flies up to splash him in his eyes. He blinks rapidly and rubs the back of his hand into his eye, spreading the juice around further. He glances at his reflection in the stainless steel silver toaster. There’s blood in his eye. After mixing the drink, he wanders back to the bedroom where she’s still sleeping. He pours himself a glass and sits down on the bed, causing it to shift slightly. This is enough to disturb her. She opens her eyes and turns to him. Gazing. He accidentally spills some raspberry juice on the white covers and watches with dismay. The red splotches grow deep and expand. Circumference increasing. Fighting against the cotton fabric. Winning. Here’s to all the rivals. She just looks at him, watching the expression change on his face.