"What are you?" He says.
And for a long time, she will lie with her back to him, her face to the wall, trying to think of just the right and most clever thing to say. With his fingers he traces the long, curved column of her spine, each vertebra jutting out like the shoulders of tiny beasts, hunched and stacked to form a totem pole.
There had been a kiss one night, fueled by Jamaican rum and Irish Creme, ripe with tongues like slugs and utterly devoid of anything resembling passion. Yet as time went on and basements got more depressing and drinks started to lose their taste, they couldn't help but touch and then to talk, if only to keep unweildy confessional demons at bay. The first morning they lay supine in the spare bed, discovering what it was to feel full and dizzy and naked at the same time. After that it had become a Saturday evening date, sometimes soaked in wine. Sometimes not.