Monday, 28 June 2021

'Kiss, Kiss' by Michael Todd Cohen

He kissed me once. Took me by surprise after years of staring. Slicked his tenuous tongue against me — searched the surface of me for something to hook onto — but found nothing, slipped off, paused, then rushed again. He gazed: green-eyed and wild, then sighed. It’ll be better tomorrow, he said. Furrowed brow. The for-real time, he said. Then, he tore a piece of toilet tissue from its roll and wiped me clean, to which I gave an unexpected shriek.

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