PARADELLE ANTHOLOGY

Afterwards

62 Sharon Pretti Afterwards He backs up, his fist falling at his side. He backs up, his fist falling at his side. She is curled tight in a corner, her glasses crushed. She is curled tight in a corner, her glasses crushed. He is her tight fist in a corner. Backs curled, glasses falling. She, crushed up at his, his side. Without her glasses, he blurs into something soft. Without her glasses, he blurs into something soft. She accepts his kiss and makes him dinner. She accepts his kiss and makes him dinner. And blurs—dinner, he, her glasses, accepts soft something, without, into him. She makes his kiss. The shutter slaps the side of the house all night. The shutter slaps the side of the house all night. Dark now. Afraid, she counts his belts hanging from their hook. Dark now. Afraid, she counts his belts hanging from their hook. All afraid of belts, the shutter hanging from their house, she side-slaps the night, the now. His dark hook counts. She accepts the slaps, the belts, dinner glasses, glasses crushed. His fist blurs into a hook curled tight in her side. Now, the dark is hanging from their backs, her corner, shutter at side of his house. All night, she, falling, afraid without something soft. She makes up his kiss and counts: he, he, him, his. ...