Brian Rosenberger

The Empire Strikes Back

Up before sunrise.
Late night. Two hours of sleep.
Last call then fucking at her place. She was closer.
She sounded satisfied. Maybe the whiskey helped. 
Both of us mid-forties, lonely. Saturday night blues.
She liked my Charles Vess Death t-shirt.
I liked that she liked.
Her cleavage and smile helped.

There’s no offer of breakfast.
I wash my cock and balls in her bathroom sink. 
Never a boy scout, never swore the oath,
but I improvise. Tooth paste on my finger.

In search of my pants, I notice her walls
are decorated by images of Star Wars.
Old school – Vader, Fett, Tusken Raiders,
the Cantina scene. Even Bossk.

I grab her ass and kiss her
with what’s left of last night’s passion,
hoping she’s game for a sequel.

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