Jennifer Todhunter is a number
nerd by day, word fiddler at
night. She enjoys dark, salty
chocolate and running top
speed in the other direction.
Find her at www.foxbane.ca.
I
t’s the swick of his kiss that makes me unsteady.
When we’re in bed, and he’s tucked inside my
space—smaller and smoother and less pestilential
than in waking hours—he pecks at my cheek.
“Do you feel like posing?” he asks. The pungent smell
of pity coats his breath, and I can’t tell if it’s his pity or
mine.
“I’m tired,” I say.
He studies me with the same critical stare he reserves
for his statues curing in the studio. A slab of oolitic
limestone, waiting to be transformed with his rifflers,
and mallets, and chisels. He twists the lid from a bottle
of tequila he keeps at his bedside, should inspiration
seize when stars are out, and offers me a shot.
“Thirsty?”
I shake my head.