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The stars sparkle white through the vapourized
windscreen. I wind the passenger window down a bit to let the warm air
out. It is very quiet outside.
"Are the doors locked?" she asks.
"It's okay," I whisper, "it is safe here," and push
the seat down further behind her.
"It is just than one has to be careful, for the boys, you know."
Her breath is quick and sweet in my ear. Her bra loosens easily. Her breasts
are firm and pointed.
"The white boys or the black boys?" I ask.
"The black boys, of course... yes, just there, just there!"
Her body worms warmly in under mine. The car definitely is too small for
romancing.
"You mustn't judge by the colour, my angel. In heaven there is only
one colour."
She struggles with my zipper (I should spend more time in the gym). "Yes,
heaven is white; pure sparkling white."
"We don't know that, my angel." One shouldn't have a political
debate during a parking session. It could spoil my chances; she is what
I've dreamt about, sometimes. "Let's say its purple. Heaven is purple,"
I whisper breathlessly through our mouths.
I actually don't like it to sound so neutral. A man has to take stand,
bend or break. A man has to be convinced of his principles, come hell
or high water. You have to be confident, strong like a lion. A man with
a mission. She pulls me closer still.
Her hands are like cream on my back. We forget about white boys and black
boys. We forget about locked doors. And the stars become fireflies on
the vaporized windscreen. Her eyes are shut tightly and she is gnashing
her teeth slightly.
"What do you see?" I ask.
"Purple," she whispers.
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