A Place For Us To Dream

[Dr Adjective]

[-> Heather & Manuel]

The short walk home, seeming to walk a few centimetres off the ground. Excited.

The smile he gave her, the smirk she gave back. Knowing. Flirtatious.

The jangle of keys, out from her pocket, into the door. A light creak, a quiet click, mindful of the neighbours late into the evening.

The guidance-by-hand to the door, the joke he cracked about dwelling in the basement. She hadn't had it in her to adopt her usual scowl.

The collision of her hoodie with her chair, her aim slightly off, it slid down onto the floor. She didn't much care.

The seconds-long tour, pointing to the flags adorning her walls. To the second-hand battens on her work desk, a daisy chain of DMX connecting them down to the desk she'd gotten from a friend of a colleague of her mother's. The bookshelf of mostly political texts, poetry, and a smattering of instruction manuals, sheet music, and even fiction. To the punching bag suspended from the ceiling, near the weights and yoga mat.

The sound her shirt made as it slid off her flesh, the look in his eyes as they drank in her physique.

The soft thump of his body on her mattress as she pushed him down onto it, exerting enough strength to show a little dominance, enough restraint to keep it in safe parameters.

The rustle of sheets as she crawled atop him, the relief of pressure as she straightened up to unclasp her bra.

The rush of blood, away from brains, down to where it was needed more. Thoughts discarded, passions pursued.

The rolling of bodies, the rapid shedding of further clothing. Blonde hair shaken loose from its braid.

The sight of him between her legs, the puppy-dog eyes he shot up at her. Of her on her knees, a thoroughly rare look.

The cool, slick feeling of lubricant. Safety first.

The thrusts.

The moans.

The denouement. Breathless. Gasping.

The comedown.

The afterglow.

The warmth of two bodies entwined, slick with sweat (among other things) and still catching their breath, holding one another close. Blonde hair matted to dark flesh, a tangle of powerful limbs rendered weak by exertion.

The darkness after she turned out the last of the lights, the soft illumination of phosphorescent stickers marking the door and light switches... and the perhaps-childish ones in the shapes of stars over her bed.

In the dark times, should the stars also go out?

[Manuel & Heather ->]