The sun caressed them both in the backseat of her car, the way he wanted to touch her, but he wanted more. A lock of his hair hung upon his forehead as if grasping for anything to keep from falling, as if bellowing and waling to keep its hold on this skull underneath which he thought of someone else. His eyes were brown but to her they were syrupy God and they decided right from wrong and good from bad. His hands were made of suede and hers of the same patent leather that made the bottoms of her thighs so sticky now. His hand on her waist seemed sudden and it felt like watching someone touch something that belongs to you from across the room.
Take it off.