She screens the smoke through elegant lashes and tracks the line with her eyes, before tracking it with her nose. She remains still through the rush. There's static on the radio, and the curtains are stained with spilled wine and nicotine. She feels moist, but her face is foam, unfeeling, unfettered. She doesn't know this face, but it licks her ear, and strings attach to hooks buried deep in her navel. Her hand reaches down to grab a hold of life, as his reaches in for warmth. Blood rushes up and rushes down, and she feels bare in between, spread so thin. The tongue is now in her mouth. On her tongue. It is her tongue. It is their tongue. There is no tongue; just empty space, that feels like a tongue. There is no feeling; just an empty tongue-like space. In the dark, her eyes swallow the sound of the sun, and spit joy unto the shadows of yesterday.
She sidles down, still holding on to him. I was born to be a glove, she giggles to herself, and if the glove fits... Well. It could fit a few different dozens, so she'd try them all to find the right one. But that can come later, she thinks to herself. We come now.
Hours pass as he continues to fill her. She watches him disappear, she watches the truth dying in her eyes. She comes, and morning enters her bed, and heavy footsteps ring in the corridor. He stops in the frame, and asks how her night went.
She honestly says she cannot remember, but she doesn't want to forget.