Author: Guede Mazaka
One moment, he's parking the car by the house. The next, he's melting into the seat while lips pry him open, while hands strip away every single layer he's got. They know him, and they prove it, plucking his nerves like a crossroads musician, cutting fire through his vaporizing flesh. There's a tongue stabbing around his braces, Mort notes. And fingers, turning his face, and weight across his thighs. It's very clear that the kiss isn't his, but the other's.
Then there's nothing. He's left gasping, clutching at the wheel and staring out at the crisp, undisturbed blanket of leaves that surrounds the car. He wonders if he imagined it-no, he wonders if he made it real.