Abby’s toes curl and her back arches. It’s finally time. The bonds of commitment have finally outweighed the chains of insecurity. She floats. She tries to think but it’s no use. She’s post orgasm and it’s clinging to her in the same way all the babies currently rest between her legs. Not like Kafka at all. More like Freda Kahlo. The fucks long after she grieved her miscarriages. There’s always a lingering of the loss. There’s always a desire to live in such a way that loss is forgotten. Abby does her best to steer clear of that way of life. She does her best to remember. Hail can’t help it himself. They’re alive, stuck a winding spiral of shit smooshed with all the unforgettable moments we hold tight. Bubbles of them. Bubbles of thought. And the massive pointer threatening to take it all away at any moment. Abby thinks about her other lovers, how they don’t compare and how they kick up memories at the wrong time. She’d never write this and she’s not the type to kiss and tell. These lovers, they sit in her mind like the divine finger but they lack the will to do too much more outside of that. They eventually drift away. Abby knows that.