darkness, I mouth those words to myself. Oh, Betty. After we… After what happened at the lake… I don’t know what to call what we did. I’m scared to call it “making love.” “Sex” sounds too surface level for something so intense. “Fucking” sounds too coarse, too impersonal, when what passed between us on the shore of the lake couldn’t have been more personal. We stormed. That’s what we did.
