— Short Fiction —

Image by Guillermo Burgos Barroso / EyeEm

The morning we left for the Mojave, we danced together naked to Van Morrison in the kitchen of the Shoebox Room. He made love to me on the mattress on the floor, and as I moved over him, my body warm and wet and fast, he pushed my shoulders back. “Let me look at you,” he said, just like always. He gripped my hips hard, light washing through my skull as I cried out. I opened my eyes to a moth, clinging to the lower left corner of the screen.

Afterward, we lay on the sheet, our bodies pressed together…

Dawn Tripp

Award-winning novelist with @penguinrandom. Surfer. Reluctant poet. Books: Georgia, Game Of Secrets, Moon Tide, Season of Open Water. www.dawntripp.com

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