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Flowing in the Gossamer Foldby Ben Spivey
I woke up in the glum, glop of the new morning, only to find myself crucified above the bed. The bed-sheets crumbling below me looked like waterless waves.
She’d play games like that; her domineer was stealth, sex, love; manipulate my body, my mind, and I’d find myself in a new way, and a new place; completely unaware of what had happened, until I was allowed, until I woke, or she woke me; and sometimes not at all for weeks, or months or hours or days.
My back bled from her insistent flogging: that sound like paper tearing, like bulbs cracking, the way she angled the bedroom light with concave shades to my back, caused the rivers of blood to glow a fluorescent, decadent gashing. A river of blood, an ocean.
Late in the night she let me descend from the nailed planks of wood. I fell into a brief sleep, a few hours later I woke in a pile of sweat.
Washed my face. Brushed my teeth. Shaved my face with a razor. My beard she no longer desired, nor was I keen on delighting her with my appearance any longer.
Each operation took time: carefully washing my face, brushing my teeth, shaving my face.
Best I could tell, I was the only person awake in the apartment.
The sun cast my shadow, a silky flow with its shine from the plated window. The hallway was dark. I walked from the bathroom to the kitchen.
I tied my tie, then sat down at the wooden table to have a simple meal: a wholewheat muffin, bacon and organic orange juice.
About to leave through the front door, framed a tall rectangle, I heard the rustling of what was coming.
Claire, my wife, shouting from the bedroom, I want a divorce, Malcolm. I won’t be here when you get back. Claire, my wife, only for a brief moment more.
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