Lion Head Mesa Cobra

“Lie back. Close your eyes.”

She climbs onto his settee and draws herself against his back. Between herself and the indigo fox stole his pelt is intensely ember-lit. The expanse of his withers is caressed with her paws in strokes that successively come slower and hold longer. It is in the way she has been shown how to gratify a soldier, where to press into muscles that coil after long days. She kneads over the rigid ripples flanking his spine to the crests of his shoulders, and up into his neck. She lowers her mouth to the lobe of an ear.

“Where now,” a whisper. “Guide me.”