staring down the sun
Leslie/Ann, Apollo. 104 words.
Sweet Ann. Beautiful Ann.
(Leslie’s never done this before, hardly even though about it — okay, that’s a lie — but she thought it might be at least a little bit like, well, the other thing — maybe, she thought once, it would be like eating ice cream — and it isn’t. It isn’t like anything else, ever.)
Ann tastes like morning dew on clean park grass, like moonlight hitting mainstreet, like just the right amount of whipped cream, like waking up.
(Her skin glistens; her fingers tangle in the sheets and she arches, arches; Leslie spreads her tongue flat and kisses Ann, right there on the edge.)
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