Tangerine

by Natalie Robin

The very moment I touch him he begins to rumble like a warm, clean motor engine. He is soft and tinged with tones of summer, winding his body with the whirling paisley on my blanket. The morning light slithers across the room and startles a still, rust-colored bikini string hanging on a closet door knob. Its iridescence coyly distracts him from me. The collection of light continues with a gleam in his eager eyes, in his eager teeth.

“I must have it,” he seems to say.

Suddenly my love does not matter. His round, stable gentleness is made violently buoyant as he springs into the air onto the wooden floor where his feet pitter and patter.

I laugh at his determination. Such a thing would normally make me a bad friend, but at the moment I’ve become so swiftly irrelevant. How easy things can change.

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