Wednesday, August 25, 2010

and we're back.

She's two paces behind you, your fingers Siamese-ing with hers. Stepping to the front door, you flick an off-brass key and retract the deadbolt. Your hand drops to the doorknob, 180 degrees and hinges squeak as a harsh overhead bulb sets fire to the place. You throw your hat on the table, weathered boots clomping on dusty linoleum, and you're home.

And as the two of you careen across checkerboard floor, you realize that you had no idea how quiet this place has been until her steps echo yours.

But she stops and your arm is jerked back. She's planted feet firmly to floor and the corner of your eye catches a sliver of space between open mouth and she takes two strong steps back toward the entrance, jerking you with her.

She's up against the door. She pulls you like a punch and your knee collides with wall. You whisper to her mouth and breathe in. Her gasp takes your wind.

Her elbow nudges the light switch and the room goes dark. You move to the couch.

Her hands guide you to a cushion and you land with a thunk. She slides her knees on the outside of yours and glides on. She kisses you hard and her front teeth hit yours.

"Are you okay?" you say, pulling your head back two inches. "Did that hurt?"

"No," she says, plunging back to you. "No."

Teeth sink softly into your earlobe like it was a communion wafer. You exhale heat into her ear and she tenses. You feel her abs flex against yours. Her back is papyrus and your fingers are quill pens, dotting Is and crossing Ts and fingernails dig just enough into her parchment to leave temporary half-curved Cs from your thumbs indexes middles rings pinkies.

Her head leans back. She looks at you like a painting and your face is reflected in the black of her pupils. She's a magic mirror.

Her irises expand and contract like lungs. Soft hands rise from your shoulders and land on your face and she holds your head like a crystal ball. Bangs fall over forehead and curtain her fluttering eyelids.

An index finger, as if poised to pull a trigger, stops beneath your chin and tilts to a proper angle. You lift just centimeters until you're aligned. Your lips meet hers like a railroad track crossing and you tell each other secrets.

You're clear-skied west coast. She's overcast east. You meet in Oklahoma and pray for rain.

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The above is an excerpt from a longer form piece, portions of which have been posted here before. This is about the only section I've recently written that's particularly self-contained, but it might give you an idea of what's to come.

Thanks for your reading. Watch this space: more to come.

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