White flesh, bent, rounded in faded light; ankles cuffed in discarded cloth. Hand as pendulum, keeping time with aim decadent, bringing life to the pale moon as roses splayed on a living canvas.

Thigh forced naked upon pleated knee. A lacquered wooded chair taking notes with squeaks of wood upon wood and a solitary window, undressed to the sun, looks from the corner, our private voyeur.

As the hand moves so moves the gam taut, an unspoken friction, the eternal embrace, biological, of hard to soft, of lust to desire, of intent that knows neither past nor the next hour. Urgent fragrants the air, an atmosphere heavy in breath, of control, of hair held as reins pulled tight, of neck curved to match the curve below, of neighing and braying as natural as the shearing of wool and the weaving of plaid.

"Whatcha writing?" asked Em.

"Nothing," replied Trev.

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Don't look like nothing."

Before Trev could answer, Em snatched the note, her eyes racing left and right, growing wide above her rainbow cheeks. "Well now, I'd say this isn't nothing, nothing at all."

What occurred next was as two birds in a blue sky, a dance of feathers painting the sky, oblivious to the ground below.