THINKING “What are you thinking?” she asked. “Nothing,” he replied. “What are you thinking?” she insisted. “Nothing,” he lied. While inside his mind were: Marshmallow nipples, rippling folds of moist, limbs of gold and hip of smooth, arching loins and breast of girl, a spasm of ecstasy, Nirvana coming from nowhere, out of her pink forfeit, plumbing his depths like a submarine, ploughing passion’s furrow, a seam of silver melting over blonde meringue. “What are you thinking?” she asked. “That...