Non-anal Stories

It’s that hour of the morning for which she insists on perfect silence. She sits on the cramped balcony sketching on a large pad propped on her knee. The door is open and down in the street there are car horns and sirens, but if he stays in the apartment at drawing time she has asked him to remain quiet. Hair the color of wet sand flows unbrushed to the middle of her spine. She’s wearing the same, white T shirt she slept...