a.
A barmaid.
Men always want women in the service industry.
You like to watch them at their craft. You see her bend in her black slacks. You see the eyes of the other patrons following her. This nearly eternal atmosphere of desire.
She said early on that her breasts were perfect, and, in fact, they were.
You watch her in her red shirt and think: I’ll never have that.
And then you have it.
And after it is gone, long gone, you want it again.
A girl with a boyfriend she half pretended not to have.
The first time was in my office, past dark, the afterfiveabadonned feel. There was a blizzard, the snow coming down so hard it made me think in the back of my mind that we might not be able to leave.
Florescent lights. Nobody likes to be looked at like that. Not the first time. I turned them off. It felt like we were doing something bad in our snow cave in the dark. The computer screen, in glowed the screensaver glow. Both of us are cheaters.
The chair was as low as it would go and she sat back in it with her pelvis to the front and she looked very small and pretty. She sat there bare from the waist down, her knees open, her shirt on, her face open and expectant. In some way or another, a picture of it would have passed for innocence.
I kneeled.
She told me her period was nearly over. Her eyes are blue and she is a vegetarian. There would be other times. The last time I saw her, it was by accident in a bar. She was with her boyfriend and a girl I’d only met once but who had to pretend to be my lover so that the boyfriend wouldn’t grow suspicious. All of them smelled of garlic and we had to drink together. .
In my office, my x coming in and out of her looked to be covered with blood. It was too early between us for something like that. I began to want to get it over with. All through the fucking, I was thinking of the blizzard. I was thinking of the blood.
I began to hurry. I forgot to memorize her body. I forgot to create moments I could revisit later, sitting at her bar, watching her when she seemed impossible to touch. Later, on different occasions, I’d create those pictures.
When were finished, in the bathroom, my x was clean, depending on what you mean by clean, and I realized the blood I thought I’d seen wasn’t blood at all, only shadow.
Men always want women in the service industry.
You like to watch them at their craft. You see her bend in her black slacks. You see the eyes of the other patrons following her. This nearly eternal atmosphere of desire.
She said early on that her breasts were perfect, and, in fact, they were.
You watch her in her red shirt and think: I’ll never have that.
And then you have it.
And after it is gone, long gone, you want it again.
A girl with a boyfriend she half pretended not to have.
The first time was in my office, past dark, the afterfiveabadonned feel. There was a blizzard, the snow coming down so hard it made me think in the back of my mind that we might not be able to leave.
Florescent lights. Nobody likes to be looked at like that. Not the first time. I turned them off. It felt like we were doing something bad in our snow cave in the dark. The computer screen, in glowed the screensaver glow. Both of us are cheaters.
The chair was as low as it would go and she sat back in it with her pelvis to the front and she looked very small and pretty. She sat there bare from the waist down, her knees open, her shirt on, her face open and expectant. In some way or another, a picture of it would have passed for innocence.
I kneeled.
She told me her period was nearly over. Her eyes are blue and she is a vegetarian. There would be other times. The last time I saw her, it was by accident in a bar. She was with her boyfriend and a girl I’d only met once but who had to pretend to be my lover so that the boyfriend wouldn’t grow suspicious. All of them smelled of garlic and we had to drink together. .
In my office, my x coming in and out of her looked to be covered with blood. It was too early between us for something like that. I began to want to get it over with. All through the fucking, I was thinking of the blizzard. I was thinking of the blood.
I began to hurry. I forgot to memorize her body. I forgot to create moments I could revisit later, sitting at her bar, watching her when she seemed impossible to touch. Later, on different occasions, I’d create those pictures.
When were finished, in the bathroom, my x was clean, depending on what you mean by clean, and I realized the blood I thought I’d seen wasn’t blood at all, only shadow.
posted by 81 Vaginas at 2:26 PM
5 Comments:
Ok, if you're not willing to slather my body of work with lavish praise, I am still able to do this for you.
I love your writing. It's like Raymond Carver without alcoholism and a war wound.
It's just sad and beautiful and brilliant.
So there.
thought-provoking, mootable pv. just my thoughts, well anyways gl & be chipper is what i say
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