On this day, their last on the train, he is on top and her hands are locked on to the creases made by his bunched shoulder blades. He is on his hands, pushed away from her. They are making love tenuously, moving softly, more presence or pose than motion. Her hands are on his shoulder blades and she thinks to herself, these are his wings.

These are wings and with each crescent motion of his hips they pull together, struggle under his skin, furling and unfurling. These are his wings doubled up, but there nonetheless. Ready to come out and reach their secret proportions if needed, held in quiet reserve if not.

Afterward, they lie side by side, coffined on the narrow bed, and share a cigarette Lester filched from Simon, tapping ash into an empty Coke bottle pressed between their sweat-slick hips.

“Does Simon have a girlfriend?”

“Don’t know. He dates like he works.”

“How’s that?”

“Hard, and whenever he can.”

“He doesn’t like me.”

“Sure he does.”

“Then he doesn’t like me much.”

“That ain’t true either.”

“Whatever.” She shrugs off Lester’s answer, closing it down with a last drag on the cigarette. She uses just the muscles in her stomach to sit halfway up and drops the butt in the bottle. She leans back and snuggles into Lester as if readying for sleep, though they don’t dare rest long because someone is sure to come by the train.

“Simon’s throwing a party.”

“Where?” she asks, mock sleep-slurred.

“The house. Ma’s got night shift. Next weekend. He figures he’ll get paid for this demo job.”

“That an invite?”

“You don’t need one. You with me.”

She murmurs, pulling closer to the warmth of those words.

You with me. She sighs. You with me. Nothing beats the sound of those three words. There is nothing in this world like it. You with me.

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