Teeth strained against gums in a raw, copper-tasting, mouth. She slid into bed with him while a watery sun rose, and was trapped in their gossamer curtains.
(A spiderweb, glistening)
She wrapped an arm under, around, his neck as she slid quietly against his back --the crook of her sallow elbow found his jugular, then her other hand found the center of his hips, and stalked past it.
He sighed in his sleep, as she scrapped dirty teeth against his bristled neck.
She closed her eyes, and opened them before he woke. Her hand slip from his hips up to his eyes, and she gently pressed her fingers against them. He stirred, but only briefly.
She bite an ear lobe, and tooth sawed it raw before slipping her fingers off his eyes, and out of his bed.
* * *
This woman, Ingrid, because that is this woman's name. Ingrid let the breeze sway her on her bare heels. The spring morning was warm and wet, under the thin cloud blanket. She smiled and pulled on the hood of her red sweater. Her grey leggings matched the clouds: patchy, old, roiling. Despite the piles of refrozen snow, she stood, barefoot, her toes blueish, pink-ish.
"Excuse me" a man behind her said. "Sorry."
"Why are you sorry?" Ingrid asked. She stepped into him, they thumped chests and the man looked away, wet Petoskey stone eyes darting.
"Sorry." He repeated.
Ingrid shifted her hips, shuffle slid her feet and smiled. Their bare toes touched, hot-cold on the damp pavement.
The man startled back with a hop, but his shoulders were relaxed, his head up, neck straight.
They stood a few feet apart, like samurai sizing each other up.
Ingrid said, "Barefoot." and the word pulled her lips into a grin.
"Uh huh." The man said. A grin twitched on his lips like an errant heartbeat.
"Well." Ingrid said.
"Well." The man said, "Good day to you."
"And to you." Ingrid said with teeth like knives, lips like whips.
He passed by her, her head lilting. She sniffed as he passed her. He smelled like a good, clean, tattoo parlor. He smelled like expensive vodka and a tree just struck by lightning.
Ingrid counted to ten before she continued her walk.
Back in her apartment, Ingrid sat, naked but for an overlong, white, a-frame undershirt on a deep red, very worn leather couch. The couch, a shambling thing from the forties, was held together by huge brass rivets and expertly hidden staples.
The wind rattled the window panes and Ingrid stood, wavered, padded quietly over and snapped the hanging blinds shut.
The blinds rattled against the drafty window panes.
The kettle whistled mournfully, but just for a moment.
* * *
Ingrid's nose cracked, snapped down, the butt of the gun bouncing off her face. Lips like a drunk clown, she laughed, blood flecking the assailant in front of her. "Really? Me? You? You are going to hit me?" She asked.
Henry knocked two of Ingrid's front teeth out, but it took him a goodly few strikes to do it.
"My dentist both laughs at, and thanks you." Ingrid said with a lisp, through fat lips. "So,