The Walking Dead

From where I sat I could hear only the sibilants and fricatives, the blown leaves of their conversation. A bit of voice like a glimpse of leg. Mostly those rustling esses, rattling tees. The limb got pretty hard. I worried they'd see my feet dangling there over the patio, but it was dark. They stayed on the porch, drinking beer and leaning into each other with the unmistakeable movements of new love. Each movement profoundly gendered: her graceful arms, elbows in tight, wrists exposed, hands birdlike; his arms possessive, his chest forward and massive.
That's all. They went inside after a while, and watched TV. And I slipped down out of the tree and walked back to my little basement apartment knowing that the purpose of my time had expired.