I think
someone else is playing with her, as hard and loud as they want to, and she cannot protest.
I think
someone else is sitting there, caressing her neck, moving their fingers gently up her neck and back down again.
I think that person looks at my only child, my lost child, and breathes heavily. Their untrained fingers
push,
pull,
poke,
pluck. Explore her. And she cannot protest.
I
think, but I do not
know. I was playing her softly in the car park, waiting for help to arrive. For the car to return, to retrieve me. And then the phonecall, and I became distant, carefully placing her down inside her case, gently closing the lid. She slept as I talked, uttering no sound,
asleep.
The car returned, and my phonecall brought good news. Happy and distracted, I was hurried by my family to get in the vehicle. And still, she slept.
And now she sleeps in the arms of another. I returned at 1:30am in much haste, only to find her vanished. In her place lay a lonely stretch of grey concrete, on which her sweet climax had been uttered only hours before from my hands.