Sunday, May 17, 2009

The Dead Giveaway


I’m barely through the front door of the house (her house) when she grabs hold of my arm, pulls me into the unlit bedroom that adjoins the vestibule and the bathroom. Without a word, she takes hold of my wrist, guides my right hand down into the front of her jeans.

The jeans are already unbuttoned.

Like a snake through wet grass, I slide in easily. She must have unbuttoned the jeans before I came through the door. She must have unbuttoned them knowing I would do this; knowing I would want to do this.

“Make me cum,” she whispers, wet lips pressed against my lobe.

She’s not wearing underwear, so I feel her moist, soft place. I feel it on my fingers, my fingers inching and moving in and over and around and in. It’s a nice, soft, warm, neatly trimmed place.

I work slow but fast; gentle but rough, her long black hair splashing against my face.

She kisses my neck with those lips I remember, breathes in and out hard and rapid, braces herself with her arms balanced on my shoulders, hands pressed against the back of my head.

It happens.

She shudders, bites my neck.

Coming from the bathroom beside the bedroom, the splash of bathtub water.

And a voice.

“Mommy.”

“Coming sweety,” she says.

“Yes you are,” I say.

She pulls my hand out, buttons up, exists the bedroom for the bathroom.

“Time to wash your hair, my love.”

______________


Later I walk alone in the deep night.

I still smell her on my fingers even though I have washed.

When I smell her, I picture her face--the thick lips, the small nose, the dark eyes. I feel my stomach go tight, my throat closes up. On the rare occasion this happens, it’s not unusual for my eyes to tear up. When I smell her scent I am reminded of loss. Loss washes over me like a waterfall of blood and tears. It’s the tangible things I miss: the scent, the feel, the touch, the lips on a neck, the fingers on her moist sex, her mouth on my body. It’s the chemical properties of us that I miss. The physical us. Us together as a whole. The tenderness of us.

Or maybe tenderness never entered the “us” equation.

I try to put “us” of my mind. But no soap in the world, no matter how expensive, can remove that scent.

I make a pit-stop at my local for a quick beer.

The place is dead. Empty. But I catch the eyes of young woman seated on the opposite end of the horseshoe bar. “Young woman” is a stretch. The girl is maybe 21, 22 at most. A couple years older than my oldest son. Long brunette hair, dark eyes, smooth skin. Knock out, drop-dead-gorgeous.

I’ve seen her around. I sit next to her.

She smiles that slow-mo, milky eyed smile that tells me she’s had a few already.

“You’re sexy for an old guy,” she says with a giggle.

I feel my 44 year old face go redder than Johnny Walker. I try to respond, but my mouth is clamped shut.

She leans into me, pert young breasts nearly pressing up against me.

“I’d fuck you,” she whispers. “Totally.”

I laugh. I laugh because my built-in auto-response mechanism appears to have malfunctioned. I laugh, like an ass, in the face of this beautiful girl. Yeah, I want to fuck her. You betcha. But I also want to crawl under a bar stool and disappear.

I’m a total choke.

But here we are seated next to one another at an otherwise empty bar. She, a ravishing 21 or 22 and me, a useless 44. The resulting heavy silence turns into senseless and stupid chit-chat that lasts for the length of one beer.

Bored, beautiful girl gets up and leaves.

The bartender, a young muscle-bound man not much older than she is, approaches me. He tosses me a glance that could cut a rattlesnake in two at thirty paces.

“Nice work, Chief,” he says.

_________________


The next morning, I buy two large coffees, bring them with me back to the house (her house).

She is still in her pajamas. She’s moving furniture around. A chair here; a sofa there; a desk up against the far wall. It’s what she does every Sunday morning. So I recall. This obsession with moving the furniture around: it’s not like she’s trying to rearrange the living room so much as trying to rearrange her life.

I smell her scent inside the house. It enters my mouth and nasal passages, jump starts my senses like hot volts to the naked wire.

I say “Hello,” set the coffees on the coffee table.

I ask about the little one. The little one is in the bedroom playing.

“Nicely,” she says, before issuing me a wave of the hand; before guiding me into her bedroom, and finally the bathroom.

She unbuckles my belt, unbuttons my jeans. She pulls down her bottoms, lets them fall to her ankles, turns to face the sink and the medicine cabinet mirror. She reaches under, guides me into her.

It takes all of three minutes, the bathroom door slightly ajar so that she can listen for the child.


Later, after washing, we sit at the table, drinking tepid coffee.

I smell her scent on my hands mixed with the rosy smell of pricey hand soap.

I feel the tightness in my stomach, the closing up of my throat.

“That was nice,” I say. “The past couple of times…It’s been nice.”

She looks up at me quick—wide, dead-giveaway-eyes.

“Don’t get carried away,” she says, out the corner of her mouth.

Tight stomach falls to the linoleum. You can almost hear it go splat.

“Why do you say that?”

She cocks her head, sips her coffee, peers off into a kitchen landscape of modern cooking appliances, junk drawers, rack drying china, cutlery and spilling over garbage cans.

“It’s just fucking,” she says. “And that’s all.”


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