Last Night

By Cheryl Diane Kidder

Five Coronas, a shot of peppermint schnapps, two hi-ball glasses of ice water, his waterbed waving under me, nothing to grab onto. The Lava lamp on the nightstand blue then green, his hair in my face, my hands sliding off his sweat-soaked back. My hips squeezed open like a nutcracker. My right foot completely asleep. The slick between our two bellies, Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven,” the tape deck recycling. Not breathing for 20 minutes, my chest arching up off the waterbed. My eyes on the ceiling, stained blue then green. My mouth a perfect O.

“I write because it’s the only way I have to figure out the world and my place in it. That, and it’s the one thing I’m really good at.” – the writer

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