Coffee Table

The magazines lie like naked 40 year old woman on the shiny glass surface. Full of life, but untouched. I take a long sip from my mug, Cuban coffee beans soaring through my shrunken veins. Pulsing to life, I flip through her story. Headlines grabbing my eyeballs. I glance. I bite my lip. Run my hands over my head, fingers pulling at my hair as I contemplate.

She bares it all to me as I nod knowingly. Each word, each sentence — intoxicating in its exotic truth. Another world that I’ve known, from a past life it seems. Titanic unrest, shifting below me, as if my feet were bolted to the a swaying yacht. As knowable as the ocean. I sink into her bosom, take another sip. Place my cup on her table.

She fills me up.