She has the sort of beauty that is destined for great wedding pictures. Her face is broad and dark and defined, like planets are, with freckles for the black and whites. She will, on her wedding day, whenever that is, make people hold their breath and coo and fold their napkins in anxious jealousy, and on that day she will look perfect. On every day that is not her wedding day, she looks a little like an alien with a rough idea of what it means to look human. She’s still beautiful, of course. I’m just sayin’.
She’s the sort of person that is fun for an hour before all the little things she does that say “me! me! me!” form enough of a pattern to look pathological. When she leaves, it hurts, and you only think about her, her, her for the next few days. If that’s not bad enough, she always talks about women’s bodies like she wants to fuck every piece of them, but has never kissed a girl.
She won’t kiss me at my house because it’s too mine, or her house because it’s too home. We don’t kiss in the car because it’s too high school, or in hotels because it’s too porny. We find our spots one at a time and never repeat. We find our spots fewer and farther between these days.
There was a time we went for a walk in the state park, taking advantage of an 80 degree day before mosquitoes came out. We found one of those small brick buildings, the ones with three walls and half a ceiling, the ones that did something sixty years ago and in twenty years will look like ancient ruins. Like all times, I didn’t see it coming, which I think now is kinda the point. We kissed with my back against a sort-of wall while I touched her, my hand slid down the front of tight jeans, my wrist screaming for blood, please, but not wanting to risk an end to touching until she came, biting my shoulder hard enough to bruise.
We kissed once in a church because a friend was getting married and because neither of us ever had. Both atheists and sinners and cynics, we kissed for five minutes before we felt too guilty to continue. There’s just something wrong about killing other people’s sacred cows that isn’t very fun.
We saw the Beastie Boys once, who fit in the club they were booked in like I fit into my t-shirts from high school. She fit herself in front of me in the crowd and we did that grinding concert thing that always feels like an obvious message until you realize that there’s nowhere else to go but then there was a hand on my leg just then but then that could’ve been an accident only I swear she’s pushing her ass back against me and if she can’t feel my erection than she gets way more wrapped in music than me which could totally be the case. But then she was rubbing me over my pants and then pulling me from my pants and one hand behind her back she was jacking me off in the middle of the concert and I was touching her over wool skirt and she came and then I did and she did this thing where she wrapped her hand just perfect over me until I was done and then pulled it back in front of her and after a moment or so held her hand up, palm facing me, perfectly clean and filthy and proud. It was a night with a lot of run-on sentences and very little punctuation.
I took her once to the art museum in the middle of the day on a Tuesday. We both called in sick to work just to spend the day together. The whole place was empty and majestic and felt like a festival twenty minutes before it opens. We looked at art for a few hours. I fell in love with a portrait of a Russian poet, she found a strange connection with tea-cups and couldn’t stop going back to stand in front of the giant display of them and listen, which was really cute, you know, at first. That was all that happened that day.
She talked me into a New Year’s Eve party just a few weeks ago, saying that only people with kids were allowed to stay home on New Year’s Eve like it was a law of the universe that everyone knew. I said I hated going out for it, because I do, because my dad hated it and so I have to hate it for him now, which is totally a law of the universe that everyone knows. She hadn’t heard that one, but I think she felt a little bad. About midway into the planned drinking of the night, and still hours away from the unplanned drinking, she went out to smoke on a back porch. I went with her because we’re old enough now that almost no one smokes anymore, and we sat out there and talked and drank more until there was kissing and cold hands under inadequate clothes and then she was straddling me on some-one's porch furniture and pulling her underwear aside and we fucked slow and quiet while we heard discussions float through walls about people we didn’t know and how they had stopped dating other people we didn’t know.
We texted the morning after that but didn’t mention the sex because that was a total rule of the universe that we both understood. We said we’d see each other soon, but I can’t figure out where, though I’ve been keeping my eye out for bars with deep booths and stores with changing room doors that go all the way to the floor.
She’s the sort of person that is fun for an hour before all the little things she does that say “me! me! me!” form enough of a pattern to look pathological. When she leaves, it hurts, and you only think about her, her, her for the next few days. If that’s not bad enough, she always talks about women’s bodies like she wants to fuck every piece of them, but has never kissed a girl.
She won’t kiss me at my house because it’s too mine, or her house because it’s too home. We don’t kiss in the car because it’s too high school, or in hotels because it’s too porny. We find our spots one at a time and never repeat. We find our spots fewer and farther between these days.
There was a time we went for a walk in the state park, taking advantage of an 80 degree day before mosquitoes came out. We found one of those small brick buildings, the ones with three walls and half a ceiling, the ones that did something sixty years ago and in twenty years will look like ancient ruins. Like all times, I didn’t see it coming, which I think now is kinda the point. We kissed with my back against a sort-of wall while I touched her, my hand slid down the front of tight jeans, my wrist screaming for blood, please, but not wanting to risk an end to touching until she came, biting my shoulder hard enough to bruise.
We kissed once in a church because a friend was getting married and because neither of us ever had. Both atheists and sinners and cynics, we kissed for five minutes before we felt too guilty to continue. There’s just something wrong about killing other people’s sacred cows that isn’t very fun.
We saw the Beastie Boys once, who fit in the club they were booked in like I fit into my t-shirts from high school. She fit herself in front of me in the crowd and we did that grinding concert thing that always feels like an obvious message until you realize that there’s nowhere else to go but then there was a hand on my leg just then but then that could’ve been an accident only I swear she’s pushing her ass back against me and if she can’t feel my erection than she gets way more wrapped in music than me which could totally be the case. But then she was rubbing me over my pants and then pulling me from my pants and one hand behind her back she was jacking me off in the middle of the concert and I was touching her over wool skirt and she came and then I did and she did this thing where she wrapped her hand just perfect over me until I was done and then pulled it back in front of her and after a moment or so held her hand up, palm facing me, perfectly clean and filthy and proud. It was a night with a lot of run-on sentences and very little punctuation.
I took her once to the art museum in the middle of the day on a Tuesday. We both called in sick to work just to spend the day together. The whole place was empty and majestic and felt like a festival twenty minutes before it opens. We looked at art for a few hours. I fell in love with a portrait of a Russian poet, she found a strange connection with tea-cups and couldn’t stop going back to stand in front of the giant display of them and listen, which was really cute, you know, at first. That was all that happened that day.
She talked me into a New Year’s Eve party just a few weeks ago, saying that only people with kids were allowed to stay home on New Year’s Eve like it was a law of the universe that everyone knew. I said I hated going out for it, because I do, because my dad hated it and so I have to hate it for him now, which is totally a law of the universe that everyone knows. She hadn’t heard that one, but I think she felt a little bad. About midway into the planned drinking of the night, and still hours away from the unplanned drinking, she went out to smoke on a back porch. I went with her because we’re old enough now that almost no one smokes anymore, and we sat out there and talked and drank more until there was kissing and cold hands under inadequate clothes and then she was straddling me on some-one's porch furniture and pulling her underwear aside and we fucked slow and quiet while we heard discussions float through walls about people we didn’t know and how they had stopped dating other people we didn’t know.
We texted the morning after that but didn’t mention the sex because that was a total rule of the universe that we both understood. We said we’d see each other soon, but I can’t figure out where, though I’ve been keeping my eye out for bars with deep booths and stores with changing room doors that go all the way to the floor.
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