You clawed your way past death and clipped your fingernails in that living room of overwhelming beige. There were two couches that intersected perpendicularly at the arms, one for you, one for me. With the sunlight scattering through the blinds, we talked less to each other and more to the television. In an effort to get enough sleep before work, we'd retire to the bedroom. Our legs would intertwine. Licorice vines. I'd pleasure myself. You'd pleasure yourself. I'd sneak your collar bone a kiss and bury my sweating forehead in the crook of your neck. Am I soft enough for you? you'd say. Time moved in such a labored way, as each stained the other in an attempt to stake a claim. Stay awhile, I'd respond. If you don't mind, stay awake a little longer.