vanilla

Does she want me to cum? he thought. This was the frustrating part about vanilla sex. He never got to decide anything, and if he asked any question he would "ruin the moment." So it was all up in the air, never knowing exactly what the fuck was going on.

He placed a pinch of snow on his tongue and thought of making snow ice cream with Frank and their mother when they were small boys - 'First you stir in the vanilla' - Frank standing on a stool on his wondrously functional pre-Libya legs, the bullet that would sever his spinal cord still twenty-five years away but already approaching: a woman giving birth to a child who will someday pull the trigger on a gun, a designer sketching the weapon or its precursor, a dictator making a decision that will spark in the fullness of time into the conflagration that Frank will go overseas to cover for Reuters, the pieces of a pattern drifting closer together.

He slammed his cup down. Coffee splashed over the rim and puddled around the base. __hat on earth gave you the idea I want space? I want you here. With me. All the time. I want to come home and hear the shower running and get excited because I know you__e in it. I want to struggle every morning to get up and go to the gym because I hate the idea of leaving your warm body behind in bed. I want to hear a key turn in the lock and feel contented knowing you__e home. I don__ want fucking space, Harper._ Harper laughed. __hat__ funn