pickup truck: Pt. 3
He lit my cigarette first. For the next five minutes we leaned on each other, blowing smoke out the back and not speaking. Then he leaned over to pick his boxer briefs off the floor, and pulled them on. He tossed his smoked butt out the window, making sure it didn’t land on the tarp covering the truck bed, and then he looked at me with a little half-smile and said it.
“I may be quiet, but I love makin’ love.”
The words were punctuated by a slight Long Island twang, the kind of accent that comes from being in the same place for a really long time, and I was reminded of used car salesmen and Dads at peewee football games.
I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I was as inarticulate in the sack as I was in normal conversation. Some people just communicate with their bodies fucking better than they do with their lips talking.