The After Math

The title is very deliberately NOT called "the aftermath." Mark that.

One plus one equals two, our two bodies pressed together so tight in our provisory passion that even your insincerity couldn't fit in the space between us. Two plus two equals four, as in my two legs straddling yours, your two lips grappling mine, and each pair eyes averted from the other's all the while. Five plus five equals ten, the way our fingers twisted together - fixedly, like they forgot for a moment what this actually was. I learned addition when I was just a child, so it comes as no surprise: One plus one equals two - two alone, not me and you. And that ryme isn't half as bad as the joke of my hope of being that perfect one when our bedroom arithmatic was over. Two minus one equals me sitting alone in my bedroom while the sheets cool, feeling a hell of a lot like zero.