Tobias

Tobias is a Minotaur, whose bed you just woke up in. He is shorter, actually, than might be anticipated, with legs that are suddenly hairy at the shin, just above the hoof. At the moment he is in the kitchenette. He has put his jeans on and his t-shirt. He is making tea. You lie on your front, the sheets kicked to the bed’s end. You are yet to put your jeans on, yet to find your t-shirt somewhere under the thrown-off doona. This morning as you shivered through the first stages of a hangover, Tobias spooned you.

And now, atop his linens, you are thinking on your next move. Thinking of the caterpillar footstep of blood in your head vein. And trying to remember the previous night’s undressing. Who took what off who, and in what order? How quickly?
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