Goosebumps on Her Shoulder

The house didn't have air conditioning and she could tell that the air outside got humid and heavy. She could hear the window off to the left of her chair.  It was open and when it started to rain, she was entranced by the music in the sound.  She knew the air moved more freely outside the window and sometimes-but not as often as she would suspect-she ached to be outside.

She was a good little captive.  She made sure to keep her back arched when he came in.  Sex was her biggest concession, and she admitted to herself that she didn't mind giving in.  It was her strongest weapon.

At first, she still wasn't sure what was happening everytime he entered the room, but she did know it was electric. After all, any straight boy would be excited to have a naked woman in his house.

What bothered her was his distance.  He would come in, presumably just to look at her.  Sometimes she managed to keep the sheet covering her, to protect from a random breeze. Sometimes he would come in, and pull it down, tugging it down past her breasts.  Another time, he pulled it off quickly, in a violent motion.  She kept expecting him to touch her, to grab her.  It felt strange to have her breasts exposed and to feel only the air.  She knew he was watching her and expected to at least hear his quiet groans, expected him to jerk off to the sight of her body.

But he just remained quiet.

Which she thought was spookier than anything.  What kind of fantasies could he be harboring, if they weren't about sex?

 There was always the possibility that he would be turned on only by violence, or pain, or the thought of murdering her.  She knew that if that were the case, she would have nothing to defend herself with.  And so she tried to keep it out of her mind.  Besides, there was a timidity in his silences, something gentle in his breath. That was what she seized on.

The more he kept quiet, the younger he became in her mind, until he was a young teenager (his body had seemed skinny when he carried her up the stairs). She liked to imagine him as being terrified.  A boy who had recently grown into his body and wasn't sure what to do with the prize.

But one day, after he had come in, and pulled the sheet off, he began to walk towards her.

He walked towards her left side, getting in between her and the sound of the rain.  He walked behind her and then around her right side, circling her. Her head followed him slightly, involuntarily. He kept going, for a few revolutions, getting himself and her slightly dizzy, finally stopping at her left shoulder.

Wondering how to get into her, how to begin, he reached out to her with his fingertips.  They barely brushed her skin, and immediately gave her goosebumps.  Gently, he began exploring her like a desert, the bone at the base of her neck.  Its hollows and smooth edges. He took each inch of territory gently and slowly.  His fingers slid up her neck to her chin.  She responded, a reflex, but not a motion of fulling pulling away. She was trying hard to control herself, but it was making her wet and excited.

She could hear his breath growing louder, increasing in intensity, heavier. He was getting excited too.

Slowly, slowly, agonizingly slowly, his fingers reached her ear. He pulled some of her hair out of the way, not fiercely, but gently, almost lovingly. He extended the moment as long as he could.

"I'm scared," he said, in a whisper.

Then he pulled away, his fingers losing contact with her skin, his fingers withdrawing from her hair. And in the next moment, she heard the door close, him going down the stairs and then his car driving away.

Her brow furrowed beneath the blindfold. She thought out loud, "What is he scared of?  Himself?"

Thrown Out Leftover Chinese Food

I really love living off of other people’s missing moments.  I love being in DH’s house when she’s not there.  To water her plants. I look at all the food she throws away. Once I ate some.  Okay, many times.  If it smells fine, really, it’s such a waste.  She can do that, throw away food, she has that kind of money, a regular job.  Shit, its tenure, which means she doesn’t ever have to worry about being fired.

I worry about being fired all the time.

Not about not being good enough (okay, that was an early worry) not being “liked”, because I know a woman in an office has to be liked.  Not a bitch.  Not like those older bitches who look like kindergarten teachers ready to scold.  

Once I found a bunch of Valentines in the trash.  Messages from her students.  Heartfelt ones, from her “special needs kids”.  The ones she talks about so much.  She doesn’t really care. I suppose it’s something that she waits til she gets home to throw them out.  Not much, I suppose.

I’m just glad I’m not one of those kids who hopes to get some love out of her.

When I was eating her thrown-away Chinese food, I thought about HIm.

My brother.

My poor, lost Brother.

95% dead.  5% chance of him being alive somewhere.  Escaped.  Maybe jail.  Hopefully jail.  They at least have a vague reason to keep him alive, to keep him from hurting himself.  Of that 5%, maybe 1% would be him alive on his own.  Escaped on his own.  Run-away.

And all I have to go on is the tone of voice. When I asked what happened, and they sat me down.  

He’s gone to a better place.

Dead?

They looked at one another.

One started to say something and then the other cut in

“Yes.  Dead.”

“Where is he buried? I want to visit his grave!”

“There is no grave,”

“Ashes.  Only ashes”

“Where are they?  I want to see!”

Funny the impetus that we the living have.  Tangible proof of change of state.

Regardless, they had nothing to produce.

A few years later, as they lay dying, there was more.

Mc-Something

McLaine.

If he lived, I imagine he’s traveling all across the country.  All the time.  Following me.  Blazing a path for me. Exploring all the roads.  And when I drive, when I hit any new patch of highway, I imagine that he’s been there before me.  That at one intersection, somewhere, I’ll find his home. And he’s come out of nowhere to greet me. I just have to keep my eyes out for Him.

If he lived, I imagine he’d be poor.  Poor, but resourceful.  He was always a smart guy.  BUt terrible with people.  I was the only one who understood him.  And somehow he never wanted to talk to anyone else.

So he’s off on a highway somewhere.

And when I eat someone else’s thrown out Chinese food, I imagine he’d be smiling.