Dizzy and wet and rank with semen, we stand under the shower, listening to the voice of the water, desperately confused. We feel good together. My hand brings the phallus to climax, oh, strange feeling, as semen shoots out in a rush of fire. His hand caresses our body, pinching our nipples, stroking our thighs. He is exhausted; I am aroused. He has no more seed; I melt from the bones with desire.

We need to talk, but our voices are clashing, and in the back of our mind is someone else, some other singer, and we smell of crushed grapes and taste a faint tang of blood. We listen to the water falling as if it might resolve the voices before we lose our balance and fall, but they are louder and we stagger out and sit down on the floor, clutching our temples, weeping with our eyes, laughing with our mouth.