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Stopgaps

Brian Lysholm

He would invite her over to hang out, watch a movie. They would never fool themselves into believing this. She would plan on staying the night. The sun would set through his dusty windows and rise again before her clothes moved from the floor. They would lust with their mouths, their bodies, friction in a slanted rhythm, the uneven cadence of a drunk drummer. Picture frames would litter his room—a blonde girl in a snowy field, on the beach, on a pile of leaves. Her phone would ring. When her ex called, like he always did, it would play their old song. She downloaded the ringtone the night before she left him.

They would stop. They would pull away quickly but linger close, letting the heat escape slowly, rising over the diminuendo of their chests. He would look at her hair, pull strands from his lips, see that it was red, not blonde. She would notice how flat his stomach was, how unwelcoming, how his small arms quivered as they kept him above her. When the ringing finally stopped, they would turn away, sweat-cold, the space between their backs a caterpillar on the mothy spread of flannel sheets.