| I'm
washing the dishes and I hear the key turning
in the lock, her footsteps coming toward
me. I'm at the sink and I'm in no hurry
to finish; it's not like I don't know why
she's here. Besides, she's early, and she
can just be a good girl and wait. But she's
not a good girl and neither am I.
We're up to twice a
week now and have been for the last month.
I'm not quite sure how it happened, but
somehow, we've got the keys to each other's
apartment. It's not to be confused with
access to each other's lives. The rules
are: a brief phone call in the morning,
yes or no, where and when, and then it's
just a matter of time. We do not want to
know each other really, it's how we like
it. We both work in jobs where we focus
all our attention on what someone else wants,
what someone else needs, and the last thing
that appeals to us is 'a close personal
connection.' Despite what we do for a living,
we are brittle, insular people. I think
that is the real basis of our attraction;
there is a certain coldness, a shell, that
resurfaces when we're on our own time. That,
and we like fucking. Yes we do.
The water is finally
coiling its way down the drain and I wring
out the dishrag and sponge. She doesn't
ask me how I am or say hello. But I feel
her close behind me, and then her hands
rest on my shoulders, and her mouth latches
onto the nape of my neck, her mouth hot
on my skin. I lean back a little and her
hands slide down my arms and trail their
way to my waist. She licks at me, working
her way to my earlobe. She takes the flesh
between her teeth and bites down. I manage
to stay still until then, but that bright,
little pain pushes me over the edge. "You,"
I breathe, "You...now."
I turn around and unbutton
her shirt, shove her bra up and begin to
thumb her nipples around and around like
time passing, like time chasing its tail.
I feel her nipples harden and now I want
to touch her somewhere else, make her hard
somewhere else, make time turn in on itself,
start and stop and dissolve. |
 |
The
kitchen stays silent. She is always quiet,
no matter what. She only talks to me this
way, with flesh, with skin answering skin.
My hands find the zipper of her pants, make
it move, find their way between her legs
where I am allowed to know her small, hard
secret--the only secret she will ever tell
me. My fingertips wetly trace time's unraveling
against her clit. Slowly, around and around,
and then just for a minute I stop to look
at her face, softer and younger than mine.
My eyes travel their way to hers, dark,
sullen, deep. I think I can see myself in
them, but then she blinks and says, "Hurry,
I'm close now."
My fingers move again,
simple, simple circle--the circle erasing
everything, blotting out the minutes, collapsing
the hours. She starts to shake against me,
close her legs her legs against my hand.
She shatters and I feel the waves of it,
draw it into myself through the tips of
my fingers.
When she's finished,
I slowly take my hand away and lick away
the taste of her, honey-sweet, salty as
tears, bitter as ash. We say nothing as
she gathers herself, smoothing her clothes
into place again.
"Now you," she says, and reaches
under my shirt. I put my hand over hers,
"No," I whisper.
"Not here. Come
lie down with me," and I lead the way
toward the bedroom. We're silent again,
no sound except our footsteps, the sound
of our breath. Then I hear her.
"What I wouldn't
do for you," she sighs. "Don't,"
I say, "don't ruin it for me."
|
