You wipe your paintbrush with the silk panties I bought on the way back from visiting his tiny grave. It was the day we met, in that Pigalle dive bar opposite the cabaret club, where we danced close and you got hard when thin milk stained my blouse, and much later, stumbling towards dawn, fingered my hairy cunt as we climbed the stairs to your attic with its surprising view of the sky.
“I really don’t see the point of going on,” I hear someone say.
