I wanted the imaginary lava to get us.

When we had finished fucking and my hand was out the window waving a bit and getting burnt by the black window frame with the hot sun on it and getting burnt by the hot sun on the black window frame which my hand was touching, and I asked you through my hair and my sweat and my clammy, happy skin "What if this was Pompei?"-at first you didn't get me and you had to ask so I repeated the question, adding "...the city. The city of Pompei. When the volcano-"

You interrupted to assure me we would have been fine here on the fourth floor. We would have merely been trapped. We could live off of our leather belts and call for help and eventually...you'd go back to work as a builder. I'd return to my life as a concubine and others who had survived to work and deceive and sweat the village food again would come by to see me. We would have been fine once we swept up the ashes of our downstairs neighboors and stole their possesions without complaint to set up house a little nicer and besides this is New York City and there are no volcanoes and this is an imaginary situation.

What you didn't understand was I wanted to be found dead that way in a thousand years, the two of us one solid hunk of ash. I wanted your cum inside me until it fossiled and even when they excavated us like real ancient people and even when they put us on display they wouldn't be able to pull our bodies apart, then made of one hard, grey rock.

What you didn't understand was I wanted the imaginary lava to get us.