by Zoe Dzunko
Let me tell you something about us. We do not fumble to remove the other’s clothes anymore. More often than not, we take off our own underwear; lazily, observing stains that have accumulated on an old t-shirt, fingering a new tear in a pair of socks.
Your body is just as remarkable but I no longer admire it with the sense of rapture I once did. Now, it appears to me as the extension of my own: a finger, a toe, and I observe it with the detached causality I would my own torn fingernail. I have never asked how mine appears to you after all this time. The roundness of my hips, the fold of my stomach — a comfortable smile that one enjoys but is not seduced by.
I adopt my position and you soon roll atop me with a practiced proficiency. In the absence of urgency there is time to negotiate comfort, and so I pull together the long, rebellious strands of my hair, tuck them away for safekeeping. You eye me patiently and, although it probably should, your lack of imperative does not trouble me.
There is a moment however, close to the end, where time seems to release its wiry grasp. Your body tightens; the rhythm of your hips echoes that of a wind-up toy, compressed and unable to displace its build up. My stomach swoops and for the first time I can groan without pretence. But it is an eclipse and soon over.
Zoe Dzunko is a Melbourne writer and is completing a Masters degree in Creative Writing, Publishing and Editing at the University of Melbourne. Her work has recently been published, or is forthcoming, in journals such as Antithesis, SWAMP, Tide and Rabbit.