HE WAS EIGHTEEN.
She was possibility, distant, and had a stomach flat as an ironing-board’s surface.
He was golden, waiting, and kept pocket-ready the hope that flesh might surface at any opportunity.
She lay on her back in the woods: an opportunity. The whole world unfurled for her: distant possibility.
He flattened over her surface, and the whole world unfurled for him: golden flesh. Hopeful, he hovered, ready.