By Robert Ellison
Asked me “one last time” for her panties.
Wanted the bra back, too.
She’d slipped them off when I told her to go across the street and get pizza.
She did—white tank, turquoise leggings, thin fabric doing nothing to hide her. Part-timers stared. She pretended not to notice.
Now there’s pizza crust, whiskey breath, sweat cooling on our skin. The murmurs, spasms, familiar choreography done.
She wants to drive home, become the good housewife she insists she still is.
Again?
No.
She won’t have them today.
Let him see her like this.
Or let her dig through the motel dumpster.
Creepy creeps creeping. Ha.