michael. the boy from the bus stop. brendan. aaron. alex.
i didn't trust him then, i don't trust him now, drunk on moonlight, and i don't plan to trust him, ever, but i almost believe him because it is five o' clock in the morning and i just want to know that i'm not alone, that other people can feel this way, too. the frosted moon-lit clearing makes me almost nauseous with delight and trepidation. i want to be eleven years old with him again, naively flirting. i want mexican rice and poking each other in stairwells and "you're pretty, you know."
-
he leans in to kiss me in the dark stillness of the room, and i jerk back clumsily.
"i have a boyfriend," i say, my mouth tripping drunkenly on the words.
his mouth is sharp, like a gash in his face as he laughs. "well, he isn't here now, is he?"
his eyes are glittering in the dim glow of his lava lamp, his fingers are lithe and cold and he slides them around the soft tender part of my throat. just one little kiss," he says, voice soft and coaxing, and i try to stand. he grabs my arms and i cannot move. i have been caught.
"you're not going anywhere."
i want to shout or cry or hit him but i am afraid and so i do nothing. i am a marble girl.
ohgodpleasemakeitstopnowhelpme.
-
what he does not have to say: i am weak.
what i do not have to respond: i know.
-
he swing me up and into his arms in the middle of the parking lot, twirling me around and laughing. a truck idles nearby, and a man peers at us curiously from the half-opened window. we giggle and slide into his car, cold-cheeked and tangled by our need for this strange companionship.
"you can take me home whenever you want," i tell him, afraid to let it go on too long. i keep reminding myself that he is a stranger, that this is the first time i have ever touched him in person. i don't know him at all.
"is that what you want?" he asks me. his smile is sad.
"i want whatever you want, i suppose."
'is that a fact?" he says softly, and i am confused. it's late and the stars make me giddy.
"yes."
"good," he says, and leans over and kisses me. the moon shines through the mist on the windshield, casts stream shadows across his face. like tears. it reminds me of crying, and so i do.
he punches the car into drive and tears out of the parking lot, neither of us speaking. at the light i offer no direction, so he veers to the left and drives for miles, finally pulling off the road in the middle of a strange seat. we don't say anything, we don't look at each other, we just exist together.
"look," he says, and pauses, obviously stumped for what to say. "don't be afraid."
"i'm not,"i say.
"good," he says, and leans over to kiss me. "because i am."
-
we lie in quiet companionship, the tv glowing softly in the background. he lazily strokes my cheek with an idle finger.
"what are you thinking," i ask him. his hair is tickling my forehead.
"that i want to do this," he says, and his body is warm and firm and tangible and it is the perfect thing to say at the perfect time and i feel so perfectly happy that i pull away, because if there is anything i have learned, it is that if it seems too good to be true it probably is.
Short story by signed.
Read 1071 times
Written on 2008-03-03 at 19:31
Tags Romance Kissing Love
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little pieces of her sad attempts at being loved that she was startlingly aware of, today.
"just one won't kill you," he says. "i would never make you do anything you didn't want to do."i didn't trust him then, i don't trust him now, drunk on moonlight, and i don't plan to trust him, ever, but i almost believe him because it is five o' clock in the morning and i just want to know that i'm not alone, that other people can feel this way, too. the frosted moon-lit clearing makes me almost nauseous with delight and trepidation. i want to be eleven years old with him again, naively flirting. i want mexican rice and poking each other in stairwells and "you're pretty, you know."
-
he leans in to kiss me in the dark stillness of the room, and i jerk back clumsily.
"i have a boyfriend," i say, my mouth tripping drunkenly on the words.
his mouth is sharp, like a gash in his face as he laughs. "well, he isn't here now, is he?"
his eyes are glittering in the dim glow of his lava lamp, his fingers are lithe and cold and he slides them around the soft tender part of my throat. just one little kiss," he says, voice soft and coaxing, and i try to stand. he grabs my arms and i cannot move. i have been caught.
"you're not going anywhere."
i want to shout or cry or hit him but i am afraid and so i do nothing. i am a marble girl.
ohgodpleasemakeitstopnowhelpme.
-
what he does not have to say: i am weak.
what i do not have to respond: i know.
-
he swing me up and into his arms in the middle of the parking lot, twirling me around and laughing. a truck idles nearby, and a man peers at us curiously from the half-opened window. we giggle and slide into his car, cold-cheeked and tangled by our need for this strange companionship.
"you can take me home whenever you want," i tell him, afraid to let it go on too long. i keep reminding myself that he is a stranger, that this is the first time i have ever touched him in person. i don't know him at all.
"is that what you want?" he asks me. his smile is sad.
"i want whatever you want, i suppose."
'is that a fact?" he says softly, and i am confused. it's late and the stars make me giddy.
"yes."
"good," he says, and leans over and kisses me. the moon shines through the mist on the windshield, casts stream shadows across his face. like tears. it reminds me of crying, and so i do.
he punches the car into drive and tears out of the parking lot, neither of us speaking. at the light i offer no direction, so he veers to the left and drives for miles, finally pulling off the road in the middle of a strange seat. we don't say anything, we don't look at each other, we just exist together.
"look," he says, and pauses, obviously stumped for what to say. "don't be afraid."
"i'm not,"i say.
"good," he says, and leans over to kiss me. "because i am."
-
we lie in quiet companionship, the tv glowing softly in the background. he lazily strokes my cheek with an idle finger.
"what are you thinking," i ask him. his hair is tickling my forehead.
"that i want to do this," he says, and his body is warm and firm and tangible and it is the perfect thing to say at the perfect time and i feel so perfectly happy that i pull away, because if there is anything i have learned, it is that if it seems too good to be true it probably is.
Short story by signed.
Read 1071 times
Written on 2008-03-03 at 19:31
Tags Romance Kissing Love
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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