How the War Started
by
When Xerxes wrote again: “Deliver up your arms,” Leonidas wrote back: “Come and take them.”
Black eye. The left one. Stubble. Leather jacket and underneath a black t-shirt with “Fuck You” printed in white. Buckled boots. His car, named Zeke, is a '73 Dodge Dart Swinger. Peeling pleather front seat, the foam exposed. He puts his hand on my thigh. I put mine on top. His apartment is upstairs and past pale green corridors with Victorian doors. “Very like an asylum.” Swords hang on his walls. Bookshelves. A big unmade bed. Black sheets. A stuffed raven on the computer. I read the spines on the bookshelf and turn into him, kiss; pause to unlace my knee-high boots. He ignites six tea-lights. I set aside my glasses. He unbuckles his boots. I reach under his shirt. He pushes me onto the bed. We do the thing we came here to do. Still, warm, and sleepy I sink into his scent, and fur, and solid heavy limbs. When he wakes to take a piss I move to his spot and prepare my arms for his return.
First published in Residual Heat under my pseudonym Aga Black.