another night falling
by the stylus
i. turning
Your hands rode her shoulders. Which shuddered. Which curled away from you.
You ignored your knees, protesting against the tile and your weight. You held you both. Listened to her stomach clench and heave. Reached up a hand to pull the hair from her face. Which you couldn't see. Which was turned away from you.
Her spine bent to rest her forehead on the porcelain. And then it was the sound of her breath, ragged at the edges. Breathing like sobbing, dry-eyed. On your bathroom floor.
Her vowels, slightly flat. Before all the Montana was forgotten.
"Fuck. Mother.fuck."
Her hand curved over her belly. At fourteen weeks, the size of a fist.
"Fuck."
A tremor under your hand and the sound of her stomach. Turning. Your knees ached.
ii. kashmir
Three days of nerve to ask and she'd agreed without hesitation. Almost so easy to resent her for that. You resented him.
The antenna broke two states after the air conditioning. In a one dollar car wash with purchase of gas. It was still impossible to tell what color the car had been originally.
"Hey Cath, want to drive to Ohio with me?" Just casual enough.
That smile she had. Impish and wise. It made you feel old and hungry.
The tape from the duffel she'd thrown in the trunk. Handwriting on it that wasn't hers. She worked the radio like a precision instrument, intent.
Satisfied, she shifted back. You jumped, caught off guard by the sound. The steady chords driving. Caught by her fingers drumming on her upraised knee at the edge of your vision.
"What's in Ohio?" She hadn't even asked until her bag was in the trunk. Almost so easy.
"My grandfather's funeral." And her face, not pitying, swimming into focus. You had glanced up from your shoes.
"Okay." Her legs disappearing after her into the low-slung car.
White lines beating. Your heart beating over the wheels. The sound of her laughter so much brighter than the sun, even in the desert. Warmer. "Don't tell me you don't like Zeppelin."
Deny. Like anything, as long as she keeps laughing.
All the way there and back, all the four thousand miles. Just the white lines beating by and the smell of her shampoo and sweat.
The steady thrum of analog guitars creeping into your brain. Unconsciously, the beat becoming part of your movements. Like squinting in the sun.
"Oh, Gris," she said, dressed in black. The ground opened up before you and you wanted to trace her collarbone with your tongue. To take off her sunglasses.
The hollow guitars drove you both home in the dark.
iii. too long at the fair
She laughed, waved a hand. "It's not my poison."
It hadn't been, then. Yours, though. The weight of the tumbler was reassuring. The steady shape of it.
"Let me take you home."
"No."
All those little girls, their hands gone. That was work. All those dresses, shredded. Work.
You kept maggots in your pantry.
Her hip warm next to yours on the stool. The bartender suddenly more solicitous. "Fuck off, buddy. She's with me." You wanted to say it.
Didn't.
Goddamn bastard had taken their eyes.
Her fingers warm on your arm, holding it down. The arm with the glass in it.
"Let me take you home."
So tired. And then you had the back of her head and your mouth was on hers. Hard. Your fingers caught in the short hairs of her nape.
A full minute to realize she was leaning away. A full minute and the bartender.
"Hey buddy, cut it out." Your hand unclenching. "Can't you see she ain't interested?"
A shaky hand across her mouth. You back in your drink.
"Gris? Gil?" Never knowing when to leave well enough alone.
The refill and a wary look from over the counter. She sighed, touched your shoulder.
"Call me. Let me know you got home. And Gris, it isn't that..."
Studiously studying the glass in front of you. Watching the ice melt. Calculating surface area and...
"Fuck. It's just... not like this." Her perfume stayed behind. And the sound of the ice in your glass as you turned your wrist. Hollow.
fin
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