5263891074_3fbec1c702_z She let her hip brush against his hand as she crooned along to Patsy Cline, and he watched her. Murmuring along, he sucked at his cigarettes and let his hand ride up the curve of her hip, where it rested, hot against the skin under her blouse. He gave her the same tired lines she’d heard too many times, and she responded in kind, but what they said hardly mattered. He liked the way she leaned into him when she spoke, the sweet smell of her shampoo mixed with his cigarettes. She liked his crooked smile, the way he paid for her drinks and any song that she wanted on the jukebox, any song that would keep those hips swaying.

After the bars closed, he took her back to his place, where the trains passed every hour, shaking the house and its busy occupants. He hadn’t exactly cleaned for company, but neither of them seemed to notice, too distracted by fumbling and stumbling down the hall and up the stairs. He kept the lights off anyway.

In the dark, they saw with their hands. In the dark, they could be anybody. He kissed the freckle that wasn’t on her neck. Eyes closed, she moaned a name.

Afterwards, they lay in bed, their bodies glazed in orange hues from the streetlamps outside his window. They listened to the plaintive mating songs of the lonely trains, and they knew all of the words.


About the Author: Rebecca King lives in the Midwest. She founded Origami Zoo Press, where she now works as an editor, and received her MFA from Chatham University. Her stories have appeared in Smokelong Quarterly, Necessary Fiction, Corium Magazine, A-Minor Magazine,  and others. She lives in the Midwest and tweets from @alwaysraking.

Story Song: "Walking After Midnight" by Patsy Cline.

Photo Credit: Elisabeth Clem/Poppy and Pinecone