Emoting Machines

The beach. Breathless thighs arguing with the ocean. There. Assuming the spectacle of her touch to be fascination enough to convince him. Time was wrong about passing.

Building her time machine from fallen hairs and bitten fingernails. Nibbles of skin his watchband spit up. The principle is constant. Slow yourself down. Arrive in the past. Find the bridge. Be it in hardened condoms or the soft whiskers of his greying beard.

It's not travel at all. It's just a matter of standing still long enough to notice what I've lost.