July 15, 2015

I Don't Want to Fight

I'm here with my weekly update on Figment (originally called "So New It Doesn't Have a Name") . This novel is confounding me at every turn. But I'm clinging on and doing my best. No longer am I attempting to tame the beast. I'm simply happy to be allowed into the cage.

I've been putting up these snippets without a lot of backstory. At some point, the novel will be done—and then I'm hopeful that the work will make sense. Here's another taste...


Some days he doesn’t come into the room. I’ll find a note written in my lipstick on the mirror. Or scrawled, graffiti-style on the wall. This time, he’s slid a note under the door that reads: “Write me a story.” I’ll hear his voice even as I read the words. “He’s on a break. He’s only got twenty minutes. How does she change his world?”


She’d been watching him for weeks. He worked at the garage across the street from the bookstore. A grease monkey. That’s what her manager, Ms. H, said. “Look at those grease monkeys.” Sneering when she spoke the words. As if the fact that someone could make sense out of a complicated machine made them dumber than dirt.

When the younger girl walked past the garage, some of the men would whistle or even call out to her. He never did. Was that why she was drawn to him?

If she wasn’t helping a customer, she’d watch him out the window. Today she timed her break to his, and she crossed the busy intersection at a fast clip, her red-and-white striped sundress swirling, the scent of hot asphalt in the air. She didn’t go into the garage; she went around, taking the direction she’d seen him go.

Whistle. Call. Dirty words in a string.

He was leaning against the building, not seeming to be doing anything. Staring at the ground. She came to his side, leaned next to him, looked where he was looking. Etched there in the cracked cement was a heart with two initials and the date ’87.

“I like to think that they’re still together,” he said.

“They are.”

He looked at her. “You work over there?”

She nodded.

“I’ve seen you walking by. Sorry for the way they howl at you. I told them not to.”

“I don’t care,” she said. She didn’t. Their words weren’t anything to her. They slid off the polished chrome of her surface. She liked his hands, big, working man’s hands. She wanted them on her. She leaned closer. He said, “I’m too dirty for you.”

“I hope so,” she said, and he gripped her up, one hand behind her head, cradling her as he kissed her. The heat was all around them. The sun so damn bright it shimmered in the air.

“I’ll make you dirty,” he said, his voice gruff but not apologetic.

“I hope so.”

She could feel his hardness through the grease-stained overalls. She worked his zipper. He lifted her sundress, pawed at her pristine white panties. She knew he’d leave stains. He had her in his arms, against the building. He rutted inside her. They were a broken heart etched in old cement.

I like to think they’re still together.


“You’re breaking the rules again.”

I take no responsibility.

“You edit. You can fix things.”

I edit more than I write. He knows this.

“But you’re not following proper guidelines.”

Define proper, I think.

“I’ll give you proper,” he says.

And then he surprises me. There is no punishment. He’s suddenly wearing the greasy coveralls, and I’m in the sundress. He has me in his arms, and I can smell the oil in the air, and I know the feeling of him against me, as if he’s always looked like this, felt like this. His hair is falling into his eyes. He’s got a slight scruff on his jawline, yesterday’s whiskers. And I get it. I hit the romance right for him. Not girly. Not silly. He likes it when the tough guy gets the girl. For that, I am rewarded, and this is exceptional.

We are there in the story, against the garage. I’m breaking rules, so he is, too.

There’s grease on his fingers. Stains on my panties. I feel the heat on me. I feel the lust coming off him in waves. He takes my panties down with heartbreaking slowness and then pulls me astride him. Then—because it’s him, because he’s got a dark, mean streak that he cannot hide—there are mechanics around us. I feel their eyes on us. He takes me into the garage and the door slides down with a dark metallic thud. There are men groping me, holding me, passing me around.

I try to fight for my way.

And then I remember something about myself. I don’t want to fight. I close my eyes as the hands run over me. I lean back and am buffeted up by a stranger. I spread my legs wide.


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1 comment:

Miz Angell said...

Oh my. This is - brilliant. I'm really excited about reading where this is going. I really enjoy the concept - if I'm getting it right.

To quote one of my hubby's wrestling guys "Feed. Me. More."