“Fort Knox called, all the way from America,” he murmurs, flattening a hand across his belly as he laughs in her face, then pulls her hand around his waist, ‘... they want their gold back.”
She giggles at him, snuffling as his hair sweeps her face like a floppy brown mouse. He smells like hot sawdust, like cinnamon. Like a good clean rain. There are, however, spikes of rose water, small touches of elephant dung... spices. And.
Their arms reach, fingers grasping hair and shoulders and muscle and bone as they wrap together.
White melts into white.
The water churns in a swirl of thin fluid, forming mountains, becoming alive with their scratch-mannequin thrashing, their throes.
They meld like two singularities, black into white, white into black, the cliché of yin and yang as their bodies twist together, weaving themselves like a living Chinese finger puzzle.
Lips of wild water cast themselves onto the edges of the pool floor in hot waves that touch the walls in places.
Are they smoking, he wonders, as his womb tears open and connects with hers, forming a second short, tight tube of molded Flesh. He feels a hard tug, a burning rent, then the vicious shredding certainty of conduit as his womb shoves its contents into River’s grasping receptacle. Something connects across the Pond, as River shudders briefly. It is done.