#postcoital

Fyodor's body was still humming, still tight. His shoulders were tense. He had come, but he still felt that there was something unvented in him.

After he'd dressed he came back to the bed and kissed her deeply. Don't get up, he said. Stay. He said this as though it were her dream, to lie there in a down grave while he went out into the world.

Listen, you must always be the first one to dress. This is obligatory. I didn't know to do that . . . We lie there naked after the other person rises because we can't bear to leave the space. We can't leave the sweat and the warmth because we love it too much. We love it more, nearly, than we love the asshole rising to put on his t-shirt. Don't be the fucked one. Be the first to rise.

. . . and that's how I like to remember him now, in midsentence, lying in my bed with his eyes shut, quoting from memory.

When it was over, he held my body, both of us still standing. He had such strong arms.