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BERNAT KRUGER
in town

The skin of her palms, the skin of her fingers, the unbelievably soft tissue below that skin. The sensuous feel of open skin, the weight of someone else -I have this recurring sense my breathing too deeply might rupture her faintly translucent thigh-skin, her thighs straddled over me like warm support beams moving with muscles flexing inside. Exhaling this tension dissolving breath of air, she sags her forehead letting it rest on mine. The bony weight of her head the hair like curtains her nose on my cheek bone, hers pliable and warm. She kisses me deep. Tastes faintly sugary like the aftertaste of sugar substitutes -like Candarel. Relaxing she recedes down on me, her nipples larger harder. The soft bubbles of her breasts, the soft weight of her chest, her abdomen. Both moving in tandem to her breathing as she traces my bottom lip with her index finger, her breathing straight down into my mouth. Inserts her finger traces my bottom jaws teeth. Touches my tongue. I swear the skin on her finger as soft as the skin on my tongue. Inserts her finger deeper, an enactment. Ritualist. And everything is written in the air between us. Scripted. Structured. The drops of rain large and irregular on the car port netting, fixed to wall immediately below the sill. The window all its panes flung open too summer-air so still it leaves the space outside the walls like being indoors literally, blurring the division between interior and exterior. Further a field the town, Potchefstroom, sprawling low and flat and tree lined beyond the window beyond the carport beyond the neighboring cottage the town lights blotted and streaking through its blackened foliage. This part of Potch remaining as still as the air, no dogs, no crickets, no moth whirs, no insomniac doves, no traffic. Whatsoever, no traffic. The silence almost whining as it leaves me with images that must be flashbacks. Graphic. Audio phonic. Outside on the car port netting the rain perceptibly heavier now as our movements go involuntary paced by this throbbing that flints like goose bumps across our faces down our chests into our spines into our stomachs into our pelvises down into our backs back into our thighs back into our heads. Further out into space, beyond the window, beyond the walls, the town quiet without traffic, the breathless air, the oaks, the streaking lights, the broken paving, the gauss chicken pens, the cracked plaster, the 24hour filling stations, the roofed hubs of fluorescence, the wet tar, the moving mirages of red and green traffic signals, the red and green framing the fifteen minute drive to Bourbon Street where red-eyed bar-ladies sure as rain continues mixing gummiberry juice urging to get medalled and patented vindicating the congesting of crowds waving arms and bodies to club tracks in that now distant part of town so alive to itself with run down student housing retaining fully lit windows like overnight train carriages. Their slap dash walls sagged and begging to break the silence on repeated annual bombing runs, traffic violations, narcotic braais, the inevitable promiscuous strip pokers tagged to superfluousness by raunchy girls met the week before their names not yet properly fixed to memory, the running through unlit corridors naked, the racy stoned thefts of effigies, stop signs, street signs, dorm mascots to bolt to room walls, to place as masculine trophies in crammed up foyers where the parent money smells thick and homely paving steady lanes of painlessness responsible for the narcotic din of not knowing a larger world existing outside of Potch as the tang remain constant and perennial with high summer roman baths in clogged up dorm showers, the plastic inflatables imported from home special for this kind of activity as the beer drifts upright and ballasted by fishing sinkers and the mind mulls and rests in the fact evening arriving steady and sweltering like an evening before a new years will have the money saved from Photostat ting handbooks providing illegitimate means for supporting good looking female twenty-somethings screaming at live bands and the Amstels to be cracked at raucous gatherings of four hundred vehicles, all shapes, all sizes, ages, all states of conditioning, all parked together crammed together halfway housing next to the heated tar and the veldt of the way sided Scandinavia drift junction en route to yet another blistering intervarsity where the persistent tang won't help the lingering sensibility that one day the Potch-thing will become that one size too small and that one day one will be back here remembering and reliving it like a Rolling Stone track as one's with someone one doesn't know the surname of because one met her in Bourbons a few hours prior to transfixed by gummis and the electricity of touching and the ferocious mind expanding energy of kudus skidding into bush so beautifully grounding giving permanence to this satisfaction floating in from everywhere