The healing warmth of woman kept the morning chill away. Sleepily Kincaid pulled the tattered blanket over them. How he had missed her. Maria. Vital, lovely, inviting, and soothing, with hair the color of a raven’s wing. She would ease his throbbing head and sour stomach. He inched closer to press against her warm back. Cuchara, the Mexicans called it. Spooning. Pale light seeped through the window pushing back the gloom. He whispered her name like a poem. “Maria. Maria.” Slowly sleep and stupor left his foggy mind. He reached around her to cup her breast and pressed his face into the nape of her neck, inhaling deeply. A sour smell came to him, and his hand filled with a ponderous breast. He raised up and forced his eyes open. Who was this? This fleshy, old woman. Old enough to be his mother. He felt his stomach begin to churn.
“Maria . . .
I’ve just fucked a girl named Maria . . .
At least that's what I thought,
But now I see she's not . . .
"Maria . . .
I didn’t fuck a girl named Maria.
It cain't be, oh my God.
I've fucked some fat old broad.
Fiddle faddle, Kincaid thought. He wanted his night, his cuchara, and his semen back.
Opening: Wes.....Continuation: Robin/EE