My recovery position is on the far side of the bed. I’m sprawled out all biblical like. Legs naked and bony. Fingers curled and stained with her menstrual blood. The room dances with dust that settles on tissue papers full of my lukewarm seed and a sketchbook on the bedside table with drawings of her real mouth and how it resembles a dying star. A star long gone and yet reborn at a quarter past four on a Sunday afternoon with the smell of potatoes and gravy filling the room. She stretches and yawns. She pushes her arms up to the ceiling so she resembles a starfish, or perhaps one of The Raggy Dolls. The brunette one I had a crush on as a kid. On the TV with the volume turned down a masked serial killer stalks a group of teenagers. The girls have tits and the boys have muscles. It’s all so terribly predictable, and yet as I pop out her left breast and suckle the nipple, the soundtrack of heavy breathing and animal cries takes us to a place down by a river, a river where bodies glisten beneath the moon the same as our bodies do in this room. With a hungry belly, I sniff those maddening scents of food and take a bite out of her. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Pinching my nose, she kisses me on the forehead, and as I look up at her, it’s as if I’m her baby, and as she lactates into my mouth, she strokes my hair and tells me to be a good boy the way a good boy always should.