Flash Fiction Friday, aka, my attempt to let go of crippling perfectionism.
The apartment came fully furnished, and everything smelled just slightly off.
But it was theirs.
Privacy. Finally.
They could be loud.
They could naked in the living room.
No roommates would heckle her performance. Her mother would come home, unannounced, in the middle of the afternoon.
They fucked on the couch, with it’s unfamiliar lumps and weird nubby polyester upholstery.
He chased her into the kitchen, and then caught her against the weird, old table in the kitchen next. The thing was built like a tank, but they’d managed to nudge it into the wall.
The shower stall.
The bedroom.
Every room christened and claimed.
There’s no place like home.
