The Unfolding by Kevin Tosca

Feb 01 2013

Nathalie came home and they kissed, and it was that kind of a kiss. He had been horny: it was the AIDS test’s and peeing in cup’s fault. But what had she been doing, thinking? He didn’t ask. He got off one of her gloves. She walked over to the closet. He stopped working. He stood and said: I want to fuck you. She smiled and hung up her coat. He got onto their bed and started to undress. She lit a candle and turned off the other lights, leaving only the candle and the blue of his computer’s screen. He touched her; she pressed herself into him, moaned. They took off the rest of their clothes and what was amazing him, what he was thinking about was this: Not ten minutes ago she wasn’t here, wasn’t in this room, in their bed, naked. They had lived their ten hours of respective day and then bang, now, he’s naked too and on top of her and under her and inside of her, having sex with her after all those hours and all those thoughts and all that life of solitary, womanless time. In forty minutes, give or take, he’ll be back at his desk and she’ll be napping, stealing glances at him from beneath their blanket, a little smile on her lips, wondering when he’s going to start to make their dinner.

Kevin Tosca’s stories have been or will be published in Midwestern Gothic, Thrice Fiction, Fleeting, Umbrella Factory and elsewhere. He lives in France. Read more at www[dot]kevintosca[dot]com

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