Big Dump

Milk

I watch his fingers tremble from cold in the early morning light as he slides them over the front of his shirt, unbuttoning it. The sun blinds me and I put a hand in front of my face, watching his pale chest emerge from the white material, the wedge growing deeper and deeper. His face is down, I can’t see his eyes, but I imagine that he is watching his fingers work gracefully and I think that the white powder must’ve been rubbed into his skin, making it so perfectly, so undeniably, so coldly milky.

He is sliding his shirt off his shoulders and I see it plane to the floor, the material trapping the air and bulging. I smile, thinking of the sails and the ocean, the ghost of the beach smell going through the air. I think of the salt in his hair, I think of the salt on his skin, white and tasty. I think of the small particles of the white sand on his neck, his freckled with sun shoulders, and how I would move my hand over his skin to clean it. To make it so perfectly, so undeniably, so coldly milky again.

His hands are gliding through the air to the button on his trousers, black as his hair, and I see that sun is beaming into his back now, but there’s no even a hint of yellow, it’s all monochrome. I watch his fingers as he slides the trouser off his hips and they fall down with a quiet rustle. Behind him, the ghostly white curtain is drifting in the breeze of the open window, reaching out to touch his shoulder blades, missing them by just a fraction of an inch. He moves and I smile against the sun in my face and eyes, feeling the rays mingle with my lashes. He watches me, I can feel it, I can see parts of him – a thigh and an arm, a sharp shoulder, a strong neck – shots of his skin that is so perfectly, so undeniably, so coldly milky.

I hear him step toward me and sit on the bed, and I smile when his fingers travel up my spine slowly, firmly, possessively. I put my head on the crispy white sheets, gaze at the white wall and the white carpet and almost giggle when he makes it up my neck and tangles his fingers in my hair.

My hair, which is so perfectly, so undeniably, so warmly red.