in morning.

It was morning and the light sideways sliced his face in irregular pieces, pastiche stripes to be rearranged, changed. Iris, heavy-lidded and chapped-lipped, noticed the incisions and placed her hand between his face and the blades, casting shadow over his face. Jack stirred, aware of the lack of light, and rolled toward Iris, pulling her into his folds, limbs, blankets, skin and sweat. The top of Iris’ right shoulder stung at the bite of the cool morning air, and she snuggled deeper into the chest, skin and hair meeting hair and skin, and she rolled, imagining herself a manatee underwater in balletic pose, halfway still, her chest pressed into his, rolling her body on the wave of his breath, the arches of her feet cupping the tops of his. Jack gave a small shiver and loosened his legs, mumbling in stale breath, - do that thing you do, with your leg and mine - and fluid like mercury Iris’ foot traveled the length of Jack’s leg, to the knee, looping like lovers’ arms and bringing it up to the inside of her thigh, where it was warm, hot, and life lived and died inside. the primordial self-cleaning oven. Jack let his hand fall unto Iris’ thigh, cuffed it, moved upward and rested in the corona, the hair soft, mossy. Iris did not move it, her fingers trailing lightly up and down his back, drawing maps of water, streams and rivers, writing letters, detailed sets of instructions. Yes. the first kiss was sticky with nocturnal bacteria but Iris was all water, fluid and deft, a fleshy pout beckoning. Jack kissed her collarbone, left and right, running fingers through her curly hair, making figure-eights and finger-traps, all thumbs. reaching down below Iris traced circles around him. Jack spoke into the pillow behind Iris, insistent, and Iris responded, her nails plowing deep furrows into his back, and then the alarm went off and the radio went on and the tinny song began to play
Three dollars says
the phone won’t ring

Three dollars says
the phone won’t ring
Iris swung her arm wide, the little plastic radio clattered to the floor, and pushed against Jack, throwing him unto the bed, the bed bowing ever so slightly, a nod to turned tables. Iris placed her palms on his chest, pushing off; Jack’s hands on her hips held her, trapped. the blankets were gone and the sheets were gone and then the pillows were gone and Jack was gone and Iris was gone and then they were done.
Iris lay perfectly still, the smell of Jack’s armpit just above her, in plain scent but almost out of reach when Jack rolled back to the nightstand. His phone was ringing - it's them I’ve got to go I’ll call you later - and shorts pants shirt shoes later he was gone.
Iris hugged her pillow, and the radio, still on, and the tinny song still played
Even if I get my money
I won’t say a thing

Even if I get my money
I won’t say nothing.