fwriction

“In the grey of the mirrors reflection, the bruise seemed to have spread further across the skin—the curve of my thighs and buttocks tracing a line against the frost white windowpane—nestling itself like a plump tarantula; the gaping open mouth of cave. In the bed, anger allayed by sleep, you pulled me in and I let you, the heat of your body felt scorching against the wintriness of my own. With one large insentient hand, you caressed my hip, my thigh, and came to rest upon the dark, as though you would cover it and render it invisible. But I could still feel. Its restless pulse throbbing importunately, like the two hands of a clock.”

Zoe Dzunko, “The Bruise”