After the Party

Peter asks her, while listening to the end of the mixtape, Is there anything more sensual than a cigarette while listening to that one song?

She was drinking wine, stoned off it. She did something else and has been calling herself Persephone all night, only speaking in syllables, No.

You see, says Peter as the last play of the night winds itself down, Everybody makes this stink about track one, side one. But if they really knew what they were doing, they'd listen to their track.

Persephone laughs, one foot in hell, I know what you mean.

Peter says, I think you're missing the point, almost.

She laughs, holding onto the word 'almost' like it's the desert after a meal she's been slighted for.

Peter sits in silence watching the television blare.

And she says, I'm not going to fuck you.

And he says, after a while, That's cool.

And she doesn't say anything, but lays back. She lets his hands fall on her. Letting his guilt fall onto her. She closes her eyes then goes, What are you doing?

Peter pulls back, feeling like the third blasphemy, lighting a cigarette: apology, apology, apology.

Persephone rings, It's okay they do it all the time.

Peter hates himself more, the couple on the porch is fighting, there is a cell phone that is floating in the rented hot tub.

Sorry.

Everybody does it.