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The Grind

The Grind

“I had sexy dreams about you,” he murmurs from that half-awake place as I wrap my arms around him.

“You’re a walking sex dream to me,” I reply.

I slip away, out the door. Time for the drive again, as it always is. Three highways out, four highways back. The sunrise yawns open. The egg is cracked. The yolk slips out. And here we are, haphazardly scattered across the four lanes of pavement flooded with light. We fidget, awkwardly jockey for position.

Somehow the clouds are bolder this morning. Fluffily robust, as though they have been eating the other clouds. It makes me wonder about major weather fronts – how did they get to their positions of power? Were they understudies, forever pushing principals down the stairs? Somehow I always gravitate toward raunch. If it’s not Showgirls, it’s something equally hideous or camp. I have always longed to be close to terrible things – maybe it’s because I can’t look away.

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