It starts the way all sordid stories start now; with one of them texting ‘You up?’
He wrote that he was. Then she asked what he was doing up. He wrote he was thinking of her. She asked thinking of doing what to her.
And so it went.
He sat on his bed, she stretched out on her couch, both moving fingers across touch pads, faces lit by screens and need. Moving each other to climax with words, grasping each other over the oceans and continents between them.
