fingers, basement, bed
In a rusty Detroit iron he took Delia to his house, his basement with the russet futon. She looked through his cabinet of records, turning each one with her knuckle. Her fingers were still tacky, still had the bright smell of orange juice. She had been sitting on the front lawn of school, peeling her orange, trying to scour off the soft pulp with her thumbnail. She got up to throw away the skin and when she came back he was sitting next to her jumper on the grass, breaking the orange into segments. Blonde hair and a suede vest. Then and every time after a shock to her, the long hair spreading over the masculine back like a river delta.
Inscape: Vol. 38:
1, Article 12.
Available at: https://scholarsarchive.byu.edu/inscape/vol38/iss1/12