Green bedsheets in a small room
It was too warm for touching: June and Martha held onto each other at their toes. June was wasted for the third time that week. There was a nice fuzz on the world. A head-lulling blur. Hazy thoughts turned vibrant- visceral- turned something that even when forgotten would remain upon the lilts of her gestures later in the day.
Sometimes June would open her mouth to mutter something incoherent. It settled with the humid air that stagnated at the cracked window. Nothing but the moon answered her sighs. Nothing but the still wind and the slow-moving moon and her own chin crumpled in her own palm.
Cigarette smoke, incense, beer lid opener, funny tummy pain and strange noises from the neighbours next door.
June slid between the grains to the surface of something hard and perfumed. The scent of an old lover, another time, a different haircut, a different perspective on money and on music and on men: three words ago, three strong waves against the wings of a struggling gull.
“You know, I only drink beer when I’m with you.”
“I would drink wine for you if you asked.”
Silk by Wolf Alice began, and Martha smiled.
“This song sounds like you.”
Dust. This is where I will leave myself.
June spoke to her in a dream. Soft whispers that fell heavy onto Martha’s stomach. In that mute hush, the desire to do something awful began to resurface. Or rather, a dense premonition: the sense that she was on the precipice of doing something truly vile. For once, June wished she wouldn’t. She became overcome by the sudden and intense sensation that she was someone she did not find appealing.