By Jeffrey A. Paolano
Liayolla monitors a sweat trickle descending her forehead. She follows its progress along her nose-bridge with a final plunge across her upper lip. She savors the salt.
“You bastard,” she expels into the black miasma.
“I’m as sorry as I can be honey, just as sorry as I can be,” whines Lenonardi, with silken voice rising from obscured maw.
She marks his movement.
“You bastard, rotten bastard,” she voices vociferously.
“Darling, won’t you forgive me?” Lenonardi whispers over her ear.
Liayolla rolls over murmuring, “Bastard.”
Taking a gentle grip on the back of her neck Lenonardi assertively instructs, “Turn your head…”
Leave a Reply