Eleven Minutes

She turns her head to the quiet clock. “If sex is what you want,” she says, “we can have sex.”

He will always remember this: “If sex is what you want,” she said, “we can have sex.”

In no way does he take this invitation to mean that she wants to have sex; he is not that thoughtless. He recognizes her sadness. He knows a thing or two, also, of his own desperation. Given a moment of introspection, he might rise and walk away. But, really, where would he go? He would probably prefer that she wasn’t there at all. More to the point, perhaps, he would prefer to be alone. How did she get there, anyhow?

And, yet: Why not?

She is there, after all. And, after all, they are in bed. And, so, yes: Why not?

In any case, he’s ready.

Soon, though, he finds that she is not. “You don’t have to be gentle,” she says.

“Gentle?” he wonders. “Have I been gentle?”

He tightens his hands around the steel bed frame, tangling some of her brittle hair between his thin fingers, pressing hard against the dusty wall, weighing into her heavily until her shoulders and chin collapse together, until her neck is invisible, until her head is angled awkwardly up against that dusty wall, and he pushes harder.

And he pushes harder.

And it feels like:

1. styrofoam
2. a knotted ball of rubber bands
3. a wax crayon

“Do you like it?” she asks.

“Yes. Do you?”

“I don’t know.”

“I want you to enjoy this.”

“I’m getting there.”

But it’s too late. Or too much. Then again, maybe it’s not enough. We can’t be sure. All that’s certain is that this thing is coming from him – not love, not even relief – just a thing, squeezed from him, and that’s all.

She accepts a dull kiss on her open mouth. He sighs.

She turns her head and looks at the red digits of the quiet clock.

“Eleven minutes,” she announces, finally.