You and she, the woman you swore to defeat and humiliate, are so very tired now. The battle you both assumed would be quick and definitive, having slowed as your wills earned endurance and your hatred bought the strength to carry on.
And though you fought through one hold, and she another, before exchanging the same again, you sense it.
You feel it.
The crippling bite of exhaustion, and the fear that despite your malice and her loathing, neither of you will finish your climax of grievance here.
For with every second that passes your scratches become nothing more than fruitless pawing. And your tight squeezes drift into barely-there clings.
Each of you still wrapping around one another, though with little purpose other than to keep your battle going and your foolish hope alive.
That somehow, in your mutual fatigue, one of you will find it.
The wind to do more than hold on to each other. The strength to do more than to slowly and weakly writhe.