By Jessica Pishko

Jessica Pishko is a writer living in San Francisco. You can find her on Twitter @jesspish.

  1. He took me into his bedroom, which was painted red. Other than the bed, the room was empty, just red. I could do things to you, he said. But maybe he didn’t say anything at all. Maybe I wanted it. He told me that he found the red color relaxing. He was depressed a lot, he said. He hadn’t seemed depressed to me. We began the familiar procedures: removing clothes, touching, imagining. I couldn’t quite…

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