Lost & Found

When Lis found her youngest brother's stash of Cosmopolitans, dog-eared but otherwise clean, she laid them out on my bed and simply asked: when you masturbate, whose face floats above you? I suck my fingers clean of the sticky orange barbecue powder and tip the last crumbs onto my tongue. Tossing the empty wrapper into the general vicinity where I know my trashcan would be. From the window, I had been watching the empty street for a sign of the delivery boy but with one fluid movement -- a short jump and a practiced dive -- I am on the other side of the bed, sliding beside my girlfriend of six months. Lis is wearing one of her white tank tops and a pair of faded, old jeans. One coffee shoulder is exposed amid her curly, long hair. As I sidle up beside her, I cannot resist a last long look at her shirt stretched thin over blunt shoulder blades, the exciting roundness of her ass. Juni? 

Lis turns toward me with a small frown, rustling the stack of magazines in her hands. I am instantly on guard, hiking up my shoulders in protection, because I'm intimately acquainted with that look. She crinkles her nose, her lips set in a straight line. Lis is not the kind of girl who waits for anything and the longer I allow her to stare, the more her nostrils flare in distrust and anger. She flicked through the magazines. Each full-paged advertisement is marked by a

unfinished