by stephen hastings-king





She drinks a chocolate martini. I fold myself up and slide into her pocket. There I join the others.  We seven in her pocket talk animatedly about space, travel and the topologies of her breasts.  She pays us no mind. We organize an expedition to the opening in her shirt.  We want to slide around her skin. We climb carefully in a column.  When she brushes us off her hand comes like a storm.  Airborne I open myself to her length.  My hand hovers just over her stomach.  I disappear into details. She drinks a chocolate martini. She does not know my name.