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Clean, Focused, and Precise

Clean. Focused. Precise. That’s how I am in the kitchen.

Hands buried in cold, clammy, raw chicken – pulling back skin and yanking out veins because I like my meat pristine. Slicing off excess skin from pork chops; cross-hatches scoured through the skin, a quarter-inch deep in the fatback of hearty duck breasts; a dozen bell peppers diced to quarter-by-quarter inch squares; two-centimeter onion ring slices; knife-minced garlic; chiffonaded basil–

Clean. Focused. Precise. That’s how I am in the bedroom.

Hands clasping your thighs, holding you up as I hold you down – peeling back the layers of your skin and coaxing out your pleasure, your sighs, your gasps. I go deep, deep into your intimacies, deep into this moment, shutting us out from outside concerns from passing trucks rumbling in the background; ignoring sweat drops beading on our skin and the humidity of summer evenings; blocking thought from formation; placing you on that precipice–

Clean. Focused. Precise. That’s how I am when I leave.

I calmly wipe you clean from my life, like spraying down a dirty car, Windex on a smudged mirror: larger circles to smaller circles to tiny circles to spick-speck clean. I erase our messages. I erase our whispered words. I erase our shared existence. I erase you – I erase the me that I’d become with you. I erase and wipe and clean and wash down and break and shatter and toss aside and wreck wreck wreck what was and the memory of what was because nothing, not a single drop, not even the tiniest bit of evidence, can remain.

Clean. Focused. Precise.

It is the only way I know how to be.


About Quinn

In it but not of it. A reformed player, now watcher. Speaker of raw truths.


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Raison d’etre

"Raw," she said. "I want something primal. I want something bare and naked. I want you to give me this life raw, unbidden, unhidden, free, fair, and true. Can you do that? Can you do that for me?"

One may only try.

November 2013
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