She’s on top and I’m underneath and her hair is in my face and her hands are holding my cheeks and her lips are right in mine and she’s sucking my breath and I can’t fucking breathe so I throw her off and she falls into the nightstand and starts bleeding out her head and I try to help her but she’s limp and I’m not very strong so I start freaking out and smacking her but she won’t wake up and there’s blood on me and I can’t tell if she’s smiling but my cock is still hard and I can breathe better so I see if she’s wet and she is so I put myself inside her and fuck her back to life and the blood turns to hot chocolate and it’s sticky but not so bad smelling and the bed is marshmallow and when I come I come whip-creme, except when it’s fall because during those months I come hot apple cider. We fuck, we eat, we download music and wonder if the people outside our window can see us seeing them in their cars or carrying groceries or spanking their kids and where the right spot in the room is to masturbate with the blinds open but out of view of any creeping toms or accidental onlookers that might find offense to the spectacle of a man pulling on his penis, no matter the intricacies of his form or facial dance expressions, never mind the choreography and bravery it takes to incorporate a masturbating partner- dead as she may be, she twists her hips further than the blood-filled dancers that picket her, and I love her for it.