You’ve finished tracing lines across my back and we lie like spoons, your clothed body against my naked flesh. Sunset is splintered by the window pane and I ask again the name of the church outside.
“There will be hundreds of churches there,” you say, as the miles between us already begin to open up. The hand pushing on my hip separates our bulks and signals restlessness with the intimacy this fading light affords.
“You will be pleased I chose this for us, when you visit. I don’t know what you think you ever would have done in Africa.”
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