James turned his head to the clock and saw they’d been at it almost 20 minutes. No foreplay, no speaking, just monotonous movements between them both.

He  couldn’t remember who had started what. Had he grabbed her breast and squeezed at her poking swollen nipple underneath the grey sweat-stained top? Or had there been some sort of announcement, the kind you’d get on board a plane? Sex will be arriving at 15.07, please ensure all passengers are seated correctly for landing.

He looked up while Annika moved around on top of him and noticed a spider web clinging to the ceiling light above. It wavered above them, back and forth, in time. It was hypnotic.

A couple of hours earlier they had been watching a documentary about sea otters. It had come to disturbing conclusions. Maybe that’s what had started them off, the need to consolidate themselves or their reality.

He slapped his hands on her bum and she ground down harder into him, but she didn’t look down, she gazed at a point on the wall and scratched at her elbow. She looked bored. How did she just keep going? He could feel himself underneath her going flaccid as an unfilled sock, but she didn’t notice, or didn’t seem to. She just carried on, sometimes flicking her hair or massaging her temples.

Eventually she would stop without acknowledgement, roll off and lie on her back. After a while she’d light a fag, but she’d never say anything, she’d just puff out smoke and finger the grubby hem of her shirt.

He once saw a film where a bloke fucked a zombie. At the time he thought it was sick, though he had still got hard. Now though he supposed the guy was right; at least a zombie still had a bit of bite.

Suddenly he felt the urge to grab Annika by the head. To pull her down, bite her nose and take her from behind, like the otters. He wanted to hold her underwater till she passed out, he wanted to watch her eyes bulge.

What was it they’d said about otters?  They were becoming more violent due to lack of females, literally fucking any available mate to death. What a way to go, he thought, shagged to death.

Annika rolled off and away from him onto her side.

“What time do you have to be back?” She said. He could hear her fumbling for her fags, he hadn’t noticed before but the ashtray was still balanced strategically at the edge of the bed.

“Has that been there all along?” He said.

“What?”

“The ashtray.”

Annika looked down to her side, “I guess so.” She lit her fag and pulled at stray pubes matted to the inside of her leg. “When did you say you were off?”

James looked up into her face, her smudged eyes and stale breath, her ragged blonde hair and black roots. He’d found her sexy. Called it dirty chic. They’d drunk chilled shots of vodka, she’d worn his boxers and the TV stayed off. He looked down at the ashtray. Once, he thought, that’d have been all over the floor.

Hannah Glancy

Hannah Glancy is 24 years old and lives in the South lakes, Cumbria. She is has just finished her degree in English and Creative Writing at University of Cumbria. She has been published previously in a young writers competitions, The Anne Pierson Award  2007, a New Writing North First Steps anthology and Home Tomorrow, an anthology published by Sixth Element Publishing. She was also previously published on Cadaverine, which she will be published in soon again. She has had a collaborative play performed at the Brewery Arts Centre in Kendal. Recently she has set up a writing group for people with MS and runs this in between writing short stories.

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