The Mathematician
Her spine was thirty kisses long, from the nape to the dimples of Venus. Her neck, two bites wide. The curve of her hip, the span of his palm.
Her eternal bed is 83 inches long, 28 inches wide, six feet deep. Her sheets, six yards by 16 inches of hot pink satin, the shade that she loved best.
He never made love to her on a bed, not once in the blink of their shared existence. She preferred tables, chairs, floors. Hard angles and solid lines, the kind that he’s made of.
Maybe that was why she loved him.
He loved her for her bite.
The way she poked and prodded at his secrets, making holes where she could suck him dry. The way she gorged on his swelling grief and spat it out in the form of joy.
He loved her for her silk too. It was his trap, his shelter, his home.
But that home is now nestled under 2,500 pounds of earth. He would have to dig his way back into the warmth of her bones.
He does.