With the time difference, phone sex became a part of my morning routine.
You were just going to bed and looking at the Paris evening from your window; black, you described the sky. Black, with city lights replacing the invisible stars. I arose to a chilly, deadpan late winter morning; all I could see from my small town residential street was a hazy white moon and a thin strip of burnt umber off in the distance. As if on cue, the phone rang while I was still tangled in my comforter.
Hi, you said; I could hear drawling seduction in your voice.
Hi, I replied, croaking.
Our phone sex was wordless nowadays. We would touch ourselves and our breaths carried us through to the dramatic, triumphant ending. We would catch our breaths and I got up to go to work and you began drifting off to asleep at the other end of the telephone. You would mumble, have a good day. I would say, have a good night. We hung up the phone and each time, I felt entrapped by my own body heat, sweat, and caccoon of sheets and blankets. Winter taunted me from the other side of my window pane, grandiose and overwhelming and seemingly endless, spacious and frigid, layered with crisp frost, casting sinister glances.
New York Fruit Stand 