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'Fucking Girls is Less Boring than Waiting in Line' by Leanna MacFarlane


by Smiley McGrouchpants


               I unhooked my bra, and let it fall to the floor in front of him.  The air-conditioner whirred.  The motel room stank.
               He looked me in the eye.  “So this is it, huh?”  He couldn't believe he was seeing my bare breasts.

               Hours later — after we had fucked ourselves into oblivion (or, at least, exhaustion) — I lie on my back, see the cracks in the paint in the ceiling, hear him snore.  Dozing off myself, the rooms seems to shimmer, and I am aware I can only perceive this preciousness — this feeling of everything being in its place — because I am on the cusp of losing it, of nodding off myself, of being tired enough to give up my usual concerns and just be there —  but too tired to stay there for very long.
               My hold loosens.  The crescendo, the descent begins.  Things begin to fade in their luminosity.
               I hear him snore, oblivious in a contented sort of way.  
               I never loved him so much.
               I never liked him so much.  (It's easier than I thought it would be.)
               I snort a bit, myself.  Rub my eyes.  Relax.  My muscles click back to where they should be, and I drift off.
               Fade out.
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