Just the right (tasteful) amount of everything (hell to shop for, the gift cards lie dusty in the bottom shelf)

They emerge (blinking), one day, many years later, gasping for breath. Finding themselves slowly suffocating in the vacuum of their edifice.

She tires first. Lets her pole sag.

He barely notices. Registers the movement only because of its deafening absence.

They share a look.

A slow, stubborn look.

Suffused with the years of painfully accreted (excreted, and re-ingested. their life support systems grown into each other. mutually saphrophitic. succubus to succubus. like Ouroboros) mutual knowledge of their shared experiences.

Time slows as they twist around each other. The steel tipped arrow of time, spikes them together, through their hearts. Their oscillations steady and slow into a resonant, bass harmonic. Thudding heartbeat rhythm.

They realise, that this knowledge is what they were searching and working together for.

That they are the same.

And one.

They collide. Messily. Squelching bodily fluids over their carefully curated collection.

Then squirm-squelch apart. Disentangling to fly apart and set to their accumulation of objet.

With gusto, flee and no shortage of vehemence, they lay waste to all the painstakingly acquired displayware.

And then slam into each other again.

Harder. Clothes dissapating in the erotic conflagration.

They fuck.



A selfless straining and rutting grunting. Their urgency swells. And then retreats. Like the undulations of the ocean- they are the wave. As the tide (inevitably, inexorably) rises and rises, they explode, shivering and sputtering onto the beach. Salty spumes of foam pushing them into the forgiving, welcoming sand.

Fused together, they cling to each other, as the ocean slips away. And in the glittering, ephemeral bubbles on the clay-dark sand, there lies an orchid.

Tenuously suckling on a piece of exotic driftwood.

They gather the fragile life between them, sheltering it from the world.

This, then, was the perfection they sought.