There was something plainly beautiful about each of them. Together, they were beautifully plain, unadorned and true. Verbal and vocal when clothed, they turned meditative and contemplative when naked. At dusk, the street quieted, as did they, Amish-like, between the sheets. Pure in their twined silence, they were freed from embroidered fantasies. All they required was the other; the two of them bound limb to limb. Overwhelming sighs at the end. Two pairs of black rubber boots, her rain boots, his waders, overturned in the corner.


He works best from five to eight, she from nine to twelve.

They work in different meridiems. He is a.m. She is p.m.

During his ante and her post, they are separated, but always conjoined.

Between his ante and her post, in the differential, they are never separated, rarely apart, always united.

In the differential, they love madly, fuck like rare lovers, and play ping-pong.

Ping pong is their game: specially ruled.

Ceiling or wall bank shots may be included in the ultimate tally, but such shots must be called before the shot is slung, else the shot, even if made, is forfeit.

Masters of their own worlds: together, they rule their conjoined universe.

It is purely love: a ping ponging universe of love: a green table of yes, forever.


Still dipped in night where stars hang high, he cannot brush away the bad dream in her early morning dark. Back in time, he has yet to experience the dawn.


Cherise Wolas is a writer and reluctant multi-hypenate: lawyer, Co-President of Ovie Entertainment, and a fiction editor at THIS Literary Magazine. She is currently working on a novel in stories and a collection of short fictions. Recent publications have been published in Lilith, Sex Scene: An Anthology, Negative Suck, and Thunderclap! Press Issue Cinco.


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