The silence was deafening but that wasn’t the only cliché present in the room. The man hadn’t changed his make-out music since the nineties—it was all Cibo Matto tapes and other artifacts from his old hipsterdom that he carried around like duffel bags. The time they spent together felt like it was always in between sunsets; the red-orange final glow of the final minute of the day had not quite mixed in with the new purple of night. The sex was stuck within that same standstill.
