The Streets at Dusk

A Sexual Fantasy

— By annamauriac

I can’t wait for the evening light to disappear, whether it's orange, grey, or any other crazy tint coloring the sky. I want the sky to be dark. I want the clock to tell me it's time to go for a walk into the night. Often, I just go from the boulevard to the bridge and come back, dreaming. Sometimes I try to get lost. When I go back to the apartment, my fingers are ready to touch my flesh, blood flowing into my labia from all the memories that we have forged in so many of those city streets. Those streets where we used to look for some calm recesses where you could take me from behind. It has been months since madness has closed itself off, like legs, like a book, leaving us not only the dull routine but an eternal trophy. I can’t remember which of us got scared first and asked for these nights to stop, those nights where we used to take so many risks. But it doesn't matter. Bathing in an insufficient light, thinking of you, of your pride twisting me and of the taboos you killed as if they were monsters, is enough. I enjoy the idea of you.