Dark room, (movies?) Warm, drowsing. He is not
supposed to touch me and never has before but now
he does, arm chest belly. I am trying to tell him
to stop. He is not supposed to be doing this.
Sluggish alarm seeps through me but I cannot leap up
and I cannot shout, at most I manage to murmur
Stop.
If he would be asked for testimony later, he could
truthfully say that I did not protest. Still this
does not spur me into motion. Slip under the waistband
of my skirt, wander to my hips. I am thinking I could fall asleep. Fingers are light, nimble mere tapping, like he has been waiting to catch me off guard for months.
This weakness, you understand, is not half-hearted horror.
It is something else. Fatalistic. Like I knew it was
coming and I encouraged it and now I get what I deserve.
I don't even have to hear the words as he'd say them, I know them myself. Indeed, he could even be proud of his slow steady seduction, encouraged by my misleading tolerance.
From inside dream I finally push his hand away feebly and
discover it to be my own, (woken), splayed across my
midsection.