Piece from almost three years ago. Attempting to coerce some old creative thoughts.
I spit a fleck of lettuce, it lands devilishly on her forearm. How will she envision me now? Will this bastard son of an occurrence ruin the remainder of our evening? Shall I forever be cursed with this bludgeoning blob of ink on my romantic record? And what of her future reflections on this moment after evening’s end? Will it stick to her mind as it so similarly sticks to her limb? What of a week from now? A month? An entire year? 10 whole years from this exact point in time? How will she ridicule and mock me? Will I be branded Kevin the Spitter? Our eyes meet. She, nothing.
The clouds break, rain plows down. Lighting bugs barge in front of me, disregarding manners, the law. I curse them away, walk. The road beneath my feet grows slick. I slip forward, butter in a bacon pan, onto my hands and knees. Bits of dirt and gravel engrave themselves into my knees and palms and skin. Lights suddenly illuminate the road, my path to salvation. I crawl towards the car, blood soaks through my jeans. I cannot understand. I will not comprehend. I finally reach the car, it idles, unmoving. I cannot see the driver, I walk around to the side, there is no driver. The car, empty.
She shoots a hair-tie, it ricochets off of my cheek. It stings but does not hurt. I pretend that my eye was the victim, act as if it is intolerable. I fall to the floor, cover my face, cry like a womb-ripped child. She stands over, me, her hazel eyes searching. I don’t move a muscle, not one. She reaches her hand out, places it on my back.
“Are you okay,” she asks. “I really didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry.”
Her shadow atop me does not move. I don’t flinch, wait. I leap to my feet, throw her over my shoulder, spin her around and around the room. I find myself trying to focus on the familiar objects that zoom past. I forfeit, we plummet down towards the bed together. We kiss.
Her hands find me, I follow suit. I feel the nomadic heat that radiates from her groin, the rigidness of nipples under her shirt. I grow excited, salivating. My tongue glides against hers, her saliva satiating mine. She nibbles at my lobe, releases a tiny sigh into my ear. I am pulsating. I open my eyes for a second, she closes hers tightly. She denies. Does she know that she refuses me this pleasure? Is it willingly? Unknowingly? For once, I cannot imagine what she thinks. I don’t dare ask.
Our clothes clump together on the hardwood floor. I enter into her, moist, I moan. Rhythmic movement, a vessel in the sea. She says harder. I wonder, am I doing this right? Is she actually enjoying this, or is it all a big Shakespearean act? How will I know? Shall I ever know the truth? I notice my rigidness receding, I think of her eyes. I am so close, I can’t stop myself. I am oozing out inside of her. She smiles at me, I smile back. I cannot help but to feel ashamed for degrading her. I do not stop.
I crouch into a ball, wait. My knees feel stiff but there is no room to move, none at all. I am trapped. I have nowhere to go and my palms are sweating and her father is right outside the closet. He steps around the room, turns the stereo off. Silence. I don’t move. I lift my hands, cover my mouth. I freeze. I cannot hear him anymore. Has he left? Have his suspicions finally evaporated? Eviscerated into the wild blue yonder? The closet door is torn open, right off the hinges. I sit still, hiding in the corner behind a wall of hanging clothes. I shiver with fright, rightfully so. His hand reaches in and rips out the barrier between us. He says nothing, hands doing all the talking.
He drags me from my now ramshackle hiding place, properly pulling my arm from its socket in the same swift movement. My shoulder is on fire, burning up. His fists rain down from above, Godly vengeance, or Satan instead? I black out, gone.
The lightning is blinding. I can’t even see where my steps are taking me. I spy a car ahead, illuminating my path. The road is slick beneath my sneakers, I stay standing. I creep forward, cautious, I reach the car. Headlights shut off. I freeze. Eyes gaze. I am frozen, nothing.
She says my name, I know I am in trouble. She is serious, stern, never submitting. I am meek, meager, always moving.
The man across the street waters his grass, glancing over on occasion. He must know that something is wrong, something is obscured. I am sure that he can tell, can sense it. He will soon retire back into his humble abode, start a kettle of tea, surely. He will tell his wife all about us when she arrives home, tell her how he saw me cry, felt for me, did nothing.
She raises her hand, slaps me. I feel the tears welling in my eyes, not from the action itself, from the betrayal. My face is tingling, heart breaking. I can’t come up with anything, my tongue forsaking me, nothing working. A sprocket must have sprung in my head, changing me, shifting everything. Did she see that? Could she have known it would happen, before it did? Or was it something else entirely? Was it possible that she had met someone else? He must have been more charming than I, suave, graced with a stunning jaw line, gorgeous baby blue eyes, a massive organ place perfectly between his two chiseled thighs. He must have been able to fuck like a champion. I was no match for him, was I? He could outclass me, outfuck me, outmaneuver me in every way. I can’t blame her for choosing him over me. The door shuts behind her. It is over. I am broken.
The light is coming straight at me. This is not salvation. A car slams into me, all air leaves my lungs. I feel my insides collapsing, one onto the other onto the other. I taste blood, spit it up violently. The car condemns me, sends me through the air. The word flying whispers itself somewhere at the edge of my consciousness. Yes, it is true, I have been flying. My body falls down and down and down. I imagine my mother’s shrill voice shrieking: “You are so weak, so unimpressive. You are a disgrace to this family, always have been, always will be. Always.” I can’t tell where I am anymore. I do not think I mind. This is not the scene I dreamed of, is it? How can I tell?