The foreplay was weird

Well, um, okay.
Two decades ago I sat, as a quiet child smaller than age would
dictate, in the back of my father's blue Oldsmobile sinking into the
padded foam while we drove through Denver Colorado in the thickest part
of night to get back home and my father's head was nodding down towards
his chest every few minutes and at some brief, jarring moment, a
cyclist, drunk off cheap vodka reminiscent of paint remover, swerved
into the face of the Oldsmobile. His face smashing upon the windshield
as ground beef, bone and brain now malleable like play-doh, my father
stayed jilted and stationary, hands trembling on the wheel of the car.
He kept count of the number of times "oh Jesus" spilled from his
temporarily weak face. He watched blood form simple trails along the
windshield. People often laugh upon hearing that story and I laugh
sometimes too.
My memory doesn't have any emotion assigned to the event.
I was too small,
oblivious
"what was that?" I had asked when skull exploded on glass.
Dad?

Dad?
I repeated. I didn't get it.
Father's breathing was erratic.
+

Christian's head moved back to current occurrences. His shirt was dark
plaid, fitting snug around his arms and chest. It had been stolen from
the back of the Salvation Army, one of a collection he had removed from
the cluttered bins one day in October. It was on the floor now.
The foreplay was weird, he thought.
She licked him
face
neck
She played with his hair, engaged in satiating a fetishistic sort of
desire.
Okay, he thought.
He kissed her. He was genuinely interested he thought.
She pushed him onto his back,
pressed her body against his.
kiss

kiss
she licked him
he laughed.
+

I was, I think, a third grader in the early 80's spending the night at
a friend's house, filling our wasted time with video games, television
and candy I thought to be overwhelming with sweetness but ate all the
same.
Six hours and twenty-eight minutes and thirty-three seconds into the
morning we slept on a fold-out couch; his heart stopped for no reason
and when I brought my eyes into the sun four hours later his hand was
cold and heavy on my arm. My actions were as sparse as his and I wished
I could find the plush bunny I had elected to accompany me to my
friend's house.
I still don't know where he is,
or what to do with my memory. Or what it has done to me.
+

Positioned on the edge of the bed,
no metal frame, just broken box springs, an old mattress
he looked her over, clothed again, as he sometimes did.
Noticing his gaze drift over her figure,
surveying it,
Her lips stretched out into a smile.
He responded in a similar fashion, showing teeth unintentionally as
his face pulled upwards. He loved the ways her mouth moved, the
sincerity of her goofy smile.
She moved closer, hands on his shoulders, a googly, opiated sort of
look in her expression.
I love you, she said, and kissed the top of his head. Oxytocin flooded
her brain and nearly tipped her over. It's where that nice heady
feeling of deep affection comes from, you know.

yeah, he said softly.
And he did really love her.
But that simple sentence made his stomach ache.
Words.
They were useless for such emotion,
butchering your own feelings with a contrived second of speech.

I love you.
why was it necessary to express it with voice like that? The affection
is made evident through so many other actions, in so many little
things, so much more effectively and honestly.
I love you.
It sounded forced and uninspired.
I love you, I love you too. The standard call and response.
I love you.
She watched him with her head tipped slightly and waited.
I love you.
He licked her.