from James Salter, A Sport and a Pastime
They lie on their sides. The clock is ticking. The metal of the heater cracks like glass. Downstairs the Corsicans are talking. Their passionate voices echo through the stairwell. The street door closes.
"Wait a minute," he whispers.
She is on top of him.
"I don't have anything."
"It's alright," she says.
"Are you sure?"
She is struggling. He is in agony.
"Anne-Marie?"
"Si!" she insists. He half releases her, half guides.
It begins slowly, his hands on her waist. It seems he is crowning his life.
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1 comment:
Nice work setting up the blog TB, though the concept assumes I read. In fact, I sometimes do and the following passage ends with one of my all-time favorite sentences. There's really no beating Salter for readable sex. [the commonwealth]
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