July 08, 2015

Still Not Flinching

Alana asks this morning, "Still not flinching?"

No, I'm not. This is slow going. Since June 24th, I've only written about 4,000 words on the book. But I'm not scared anymore. I'm doing my best to straighten out the knots. I have this strange idea about how to present the completed work. I'll see what happens.


He was going to tell her that her hair looked soft, that he wanted to run his fingers through it. Instead, he sipped his coppery coffee and watched the sway of her hips as she walked behind the counter, listened to the cadence, the rhythm, of her banter with the cook and the other girl in the matching uniform. Aqua and pink.

He saw the tear in her stockings. He wondered, almost absentmindedly, how she’d ripped them. That thought dissolved easily into the next, wanting to rip them further, shred them off her. Wanting her not to be naked entirely, but disheveled.

He put down money when he was done and walked out, taking his time, kicking stones on the parking lot. Failure, he thought. Next time, he thought. He was surprised when she came after him, looped one slim arm through his. Her skin was cool, pale, freckled.

She had a bad habit. She gave away her heart too easily. She gave away her heart so often that she no longer knew who held it. In the back of his truck, she spread her legs and gave herself over to him.

“They’re so lonely,” he says.

I don’t tell him that’s because of the story starters. I don’t blame him for the roads he sends me down, with the weeds breaking through the gravel, with the dust stirring in the night air. Because maybe the loneliness doesn’t come from him after all. Maybe that quality is in me, and I am simply unlocked by his prompts.

Either way, I agree with him: Yes, they’re lonely.

He cuffs me with my hands over my head, my back to the wall. He parts my thighs and goes on his knees. I am startled by the sweetness of his tongue on my pussy, shocked by the generous way he licks me.

“Why are they always lonely?” he asks. Sadness throbs in his voice.

Because everyone’s lonely, I think.

There’s coffee on the table when I wake up. Coffee in a porcelain mug. The neon sign buzzes. I like the sound. Coffee means my story is lingering with him, resonating with him. He’s plucking items from my story to show that I’m capturing his attention. He’s not easy to please. I drink the coffee and feel the warmth spread through me.

In a pile at the foot of my bed is an aqua and turquoise uniform. I’m just slipping it on when he walks in the door.


“Why aren’t they ever happy?” he asks.

“They’re happy.”

“No,” he says. “They’re not.”

I consider my words carefully. “Then maybe they were happy,” I say. “You just don’t see that part. That’s not what’s important.” I try to make sense so he’ll understand. “Maybe they were happy before. Maybe they had a great day. But right now, it’s not like that. I have them where they are. And then I take them somewhere else.”

“It would be nice if they’d be happy sometimes,” he says.

Wouldn’t it? I agree.



Alana Noel Voth said...

This is lovely. I dig the POV switches. Don't hurry and don't worry about not hurrying.


F. Leonora Solomon said...

i love the way you tell a story, you just know how to touch all of my triggers...beautiful...