PRIVATE COMPARTMENTS

            The train’s whistle trumpets.  We are rounding the bend into Montejo.

            In the private compartment her head is thrown back.  Her long blonde hair shudders over her shoulders.

            I am callous as I pinch warm dough.  Gently bite the filling.  Smell the ferment.  Sip the liqueur.

            She bows forward and sucks my neck.  “The curtain is open,” she reminds me.

            Time is short but it has been too long.  I will let her have all of me.  Lapping around the thicket is slippery when wet and I plunge down the well.

            Blast after blast the train’s whistle blows.

            The next thing I know, she is exhaling sharply, “That, is, the, Por,ter, knock,ing!  We, are, al,most, there!”

            My ears buzz.  My lips hum.  Suddenly I am a kite, beginning to twirl, and she holds me in tight.  Gravity is overcome, in all directions.  Her voice is thrown clear in a spear of song, and it splinters on the ceiling into laughter.

            We are rent apart, hot uncaring husks on the hooks of a grin, deliciously depleted.  Memory alone is enough to cause trembles and aftershocks.

            The Porter is knocking again.  I wobble to my feet.

             “Come on, Suizette.  I already put a $20 tip under the champagne bottle.  You don’t have to straighten up anything….. Else.”  I grin at my own joke.

            I think the Porter is laughing.

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