Two printed pictures from a digital camera. Dirty, stepped on, lying out

on the floor of the room.

Light shimmers in the reflection of water on the street. She swallows and presses her face on her stomach against the brick wall. Breathing rises and falls, rain drowns sight. There is no space or difference between them.

The seatbelt buckle is frozen. Below the window line, her body lies stiff on the leather seats, half awake. She notices the dirt and crumbs in the crevices. The car smells of stale cigarettes and pine. Warm, dripping sweat under her parka. Thighs stick together. A traced heart in the condensation of the window fades to a white blur. Eyes close and the body melts through the seat, into the ground.

A man and a woman are in a living room.

It’s so expensive that it could be anywhere.

He fucks her on the floor between the couch and the coffee table.

“We went over after the dissolution.”

Jagged breaths between each sentence.

“Local TV station did a segment of us leaving, getting on the plane, all that. I was supposed to be shooting but I don't remember anything aside from getting shitfaced on vodka every night and this girl I kept fucking. She worked in the school, couldn't speak a word of English. I would pretend to be a spy in my black turtleneck and follow her steps around the hallways. Avoiding all this broken glass on the floor. Get her into a corner, start

Fuck

Start rubbing

Fuck”

He sticks his tongue down her throat.

“Did you notice in Tepeyac, how the ones at the Mission acted like they had never even seen

“I don’t”

“Shut up. I’m talking myself through it.”

“I don’t”

“Is that the only thing you know how to say?”

He thrusts harder.

They come together.

“Stupid.”

The man is George, 50. A photographer.

The woman is Emily, 26. His assistant, for now.

She starts to cry.

“No, look. Don’t do that, no. No, I’m sorry. That was rude of me.”

He pulls out and lies on top of her.

“I know how it sounds. When I was a child, my mother used to talk that way all the time, about my father, the shape of his parts, the things she did to and with him. Probably heard it a thousand times. In all honesty, it used to make me feel ill when I heard it, but I understand now.

There are only four things people need to survive in this world: Air, food, water, and a hard cock. It’s biological. That’s why I like our little arrangement, you and me. We provide each other with basic necessities. Isn’t there anything you like about it?”

“…”

“Can you not speak?”

“sometimes

when you go in and press really hard and stay there

i feel blank like all the thoughts in my head are

gone”

“You’re simple, like me. I notice the way your little legs shift when you need a spasm. It’s a distraction for you, it must be. Neither of us can work when it hurts. We have to clear it out. Besides, you’re not as pretty as you used to be. Probably harder to get someone inside you. But you’re quiet, a good woman. You take care of my needs, and I take care of yours. I like you.”

The stairs sound close. George traces the pattern of the footsteps. He slaps her face.

“Up.”

Her dress is pulled down and she is upright, twenty feet away from her body.

A woman steps down the staircase, footsteps sharp and rhythmic.

White silk surrounds, swings soft around edges. She is cold, crystallized as the natural snow.

“Mara knows all about fucking. Doesn’t she, Mara?”

The woman is Mara, 40. She is George’s wife, and partner in a corporate sense.

She lights a cigarette with a zippo in her hand.

“Someday soon, I’ll be the one throwing soil over your head.”

She takes a drag. A steady flow of blood drips from Emily’s nostrils. Mara looks for eye contact, distanced by the incorporeal. She puts out the cigarette on her dress and gently moves beside her on the couch, meeting face to face. Chest touching chest, synchronized breath.

Mara caresses, cradles her head in her hands. She wipes the blood from her face with her thumbs, gently cleans them off with her tongue. Emily meets her eyes, burning like a thousand watt bulb. She coils her fingers around Mara’s wrists to pull them down. Mara turns her head to George.

“You received the prints, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Make a decision tonight. I’m taking them over in the morning.”

“Thank you.”

The space shifts. Mara returns to her ice-cold demeanor,

 stands and moves to ascend the staircase, maintaining eye contact.

She leaves in silence.

“She’s my world, you know.”