The Tent.
Twenty-six cicadas. Twenty-six different cicadas he'd counted. And some shitty, rain-gray blue. Rain-gray blue was the color of the ceiling of his tent, he'd decided. And fire red, that was the color of her hair. His thoughts always returned to her.
He saw it in her shy, fumbling smile. This woman who could read minds didn't have the power to help herself from nervously averting her eyes when she realized they'd been looking at each other too long, and she'd began to look at him the same way he looked at her. And he saw it. That's why he took the chance at the bottom of the stairs of the jet, with the light from inside pouring all over them. For just a moment, she wasn't averting her eyes. She was holding him, kissing him like he knew she burned to, burned red inside like the fire red of her hair.
She liked it, he wanted to laugh to himself.
But it didn't feel right. Was it because of Scott? Hell no. He didn't feel a bit of guilt. He thought she deserved better. In truth he respected Scott. He had a great bike. But how could that chick with a dick love her half as much as he did?
Twenty-seven cicadas.
She had straight teeth. And for two seconds he got to run his tongue over those beautiful teeth, under those beautiful lips that smiled and teased him as she used to blush and turn away.
He thought he'd won. He realized he'd always assumed he would. Even those nights, after she'd wished him goodnight in her pajamas and shut the door to Scott's bedroom behind her, he'd lay awake in his bed, staring at his green-white but dim ceiling and imagine, in the silence, the sound of his door creaking. He'd immediately snap his head over to see the intruder and see the only thing that made his muscles both melt and burn. And she'd move silently, almost float, over to where he lay on his bed on his back; and he might object but she, with her gentle eyes like lithe arms around him, would put her hand over his mouth and lay him down again and cover his bewilderment with her kiss. Then the sight of his ceiling would disappear and she would be above him, his hands in her fiery hair, his hands burning at her hips. He imagined her skin was soft. He had no idea like what, though. All he knew was the roughness of flannel and random, leathery bar women and the pain of knives bursting through the flesh between his fingers. But then he'd feel her skin, and her ribs, and she would be his, like he knew she wanted to be.
. but she didn't.
The dim gray-blue ceiling of his tent was unapologetically real. She had walked away. Then he walked away, slightly more stunned than he thought he'd be. Her kiss wasn't like that of a random, leathery woman in a backwoods bar. He realized, for two seconds, just how much more she was than he'd expected. And she was kissing him. He had her, this woman like a shining bird, like no beer-tasting bitch he'd had before. And then.
. she chose Scott.
He tried to think about how good a beer would taste. He craved a cigar. He craved some kind of release, chemical or otherwise. He shut his eyes and tried to think about her.
But couldn't. Something wouldn't let him.
It really was just a dream now, he thought with a feeling like his insides were gone. It had been a hope before but now it was and always would be just a fantasy. To dream would be to delude himself. To dream of her would be more painful than pleasurable. He couldn't anymore. It would never be.
He'd never kiss the curves of her neck, feel her delicate ribs, put his strong, rough hands into the hair that made his blood boil like an animal's.
It was easier for him to count cicadas.
Twenty.
A shitty, rain-blue ceiling.
He closed his eyes and held his breath.
Fire-red hair, his mind moaned.
The unzip of his tent door startled him.
He sat up quickly.
It was her.
No collection of limbs and bones was ever so beautiful, painful, and comforting. She was so striking it had to be real. He didn't think an animal like him could feel as weightless as he did then. It was like she was starving. It was like she was on the verge of tears. It was like all her gentleness had only one target, and no time could be wasted on words. She put a hand over his ready-to-protest mouth and both of their bodies knew to lay down at the same graceful speed.
He almost lost all feeling when she touched him. All he felt was his desire for her, her skin, her hair, her hips.
They looked each other in the eyes and she put her lips on his like a thirsty man's on water. Her lips, her hair, her hands behind his neck reclining him.tear water welled in his left eye. She tasted wonderful. And he felt her teeth and felt her neck and the rough hands that so often injured then ran up her stomach like hands worshipping at church. He held her so strong and still so cautiously, like he never wanted to let her go but was afraid to break her. He fire red hair fell in his eyes and burned his body. He pulled her hips tightly to his and his hand moved like fire to the ribs he'd dreamed of. And for a moment - he was right. Her skin was indescribably soft and he was somewhere he'd never been and would stop breathing if he left.
"What?"
Her smooth skin was interrupted by three parallel scars. His surprised eyes popped open.
Something was wrong.
She whispered an inch from his face, "No one's ever scarred me like you did," her skin quivering, shivering, shingling, tingling, and tiling from peach to blue to peach again.
The blue animal blood inside him throbbed through his veins again and he flung her off him roughly, his knives almost breaking his skin's surface.
She asked as if she'd give him whatever he asked, "What do you want?"
One second - to live in a dream, to roll around with his dream in his arms - his heart begged. But the pain of its impossibility outweighed its fleeting pleasure.
"I want you to get out."
She looked at him a moment, a creature equally as proud and isolated, then turned angrily and slid out as swiftly as a fuming cat.
He sat there. He took a few deep breaths. He went to sleep without a single thought.
Twenty-six cicadas. Twenty-six different cicadas he'd counted. And some shitty, rain-gray blue. Rain-gray blue was the color of the ceiling of his tent, he'd decided. And fire red, that was the color of her hair. His thoughts always returned to her.
He saw it in her shy, fumbling smile. This woman who could read minds didn't have the power to help herself from nervously averting her eyes when she realized they'd been looking at each other too long, and she'd began to look at him the same way he looked at her. And he saw it. That's why he took the chance at the bottom of the stairs of the jet, with the light from inside pouring all over them. For just a moment, she wasn't averting her eyes. She was holding him, kissing him like he knew she burned to, burned red inside like the fire red of her hair.
She liked it, he wanted to laugh to himself.
But it didn't feel right. Was it because of Scott? Hell no. He didn't feel a bit of guilt. He thought she deserved better. In truth he respected Scott. He had a great bike. But how could that chick with a dick love her half as much as he did?
Twenty-seven cicadas.
She had straight teeth. And for two seconds he got to run his tongue over those beautiful teeth, under those beautiful lips that smiled and teased him as she used to blush and turn away.
He thought he'd won. He realized he'd always assumed he would. Even those nights, after she'd wished him goodnight in her pajamas and shut the door to Scott's bedroom behind her, he'd lay awake in his bed, staring at his green-white but dim ceiling and imagine, in the silence, the sound of his door creaking. He'd immediately snap his head over to see the intruder and see the only thing that made his muscles both melt and burn. And she'd move silently, almost float, over to where he lay on his bed on his back; and he might object but she, with her gentle eyes like lithe arms around him, would put her hand over his mouth and lay him down again and cover his bewilderment with her kiss. Then the sight of his ceiling would disappear and she would be above him, his hands in her fiery hair, his hands burning at her hips. He imagined her skin was soft. He had no idea like what, though. All he knew was the roughness of flannel and random, leathery bar women and the pain of knives bursting through the flesh between his fingers. But then he'd feel her skin, and her ribs, and she would be his, like he knew she wanted to be.
. but she didn't.
The dim gray-blue ceiling of his tent was unapologetically real. She had walked away. Then he walked away, slightly more stunned than he thought he'd be. Her kiss wasn't like that of a random, leathery woman in a backwoods bar. He realized, for two seconds, just how much more she was than he'd expected. And she was kissing him. He had her, this woman like a shining bird, like no beer-tasting bitch he'd had before. And then.
. she chose Scott.
He tried to think about how good a beer would taste. He craved a cigar. He craved some kind of release, chemical or otherwise. He shut his eyes and tried to think about her.
But couldn't. Something wouldn't let him.
It really was just a dream now, he thought with a feeling like his insides were gone. It had been a hope before but now it was and always would be just a fantasy. To dream would be to delude himself. To dream of her would be more painful than pleasurable. He couldn't anymore. It would never be.
He'd never kiss the curves of her neck, feel her delicate ribs, put his strong, rough hands into the hair that made his blood boil like an animal's.
It was easier for him to count cicadas.
Twenty.
A shitty, rain-blue ceiling.
He closed his eyes and held his breath.
Fire-red hair, his mind moaned.
The unzip of his tent door startled him.
He sat up quickly.
It was her.
No collection of limbs and bones was ever so beautiful, painful, and comforting. She was so striking it had to be real. He didn't think an animal like him could feel as weightless as he did then. It was like she was starving. It was like she was on the verge of tears. It was like all her gentleness had only one target, and no time could be wasted on words. She put a hand over his ready-to-protest mouth and both of their bodies knew to lay down at the same graceful speed.
He almost lost all feeling when she touched him. All he felt was his desire for her, her skin, her hair, her hips.
They looked each other in the eyes and she put her lips on his like a thirsty man's on water. Her lips, her hair, her hands behind his neck reclining him.tear water welled in his left eye. She tasted wonderful. And he felt her teeth and felt her neck and the rough hands that so often injured then ran up her stomach like hands worshipping at church. He held her so strong and still so cautiously, like he never wanted to let her go but was afraid to break her. He fire red hair fell in his eyes and burned his body. He pulled her hips tightly to his and his hand moved like fire to the ribs he'd dreamed of. And for a moment - he was right. Her skin was indescribably soft and he was somewhere he'd never been and would stop breathing if he left.
"What?"
Her smooth skin was interrupted by three parallel scars. His surprised eyes popped open.
Something was wrong.
She whispered an inch from his face, "No one's ever scarred me like you did," her skin quivering, shivering, shingling, tingling, and tiling from peach to blue to peach again.
The blue animal blood inside him throbbed through his veins again and he flung her off him roughly, his knives almost breaking his skin's surface.
She asked as if she'd give him whatever he asked, "What do you want?"
One second - to live in a dream, to roll around with his dream in his arms - his heart begged. But the pain of its impossibility outweighed its fleeting pleasure.
"I want you to get out."
She looked at him a moment, a creature equally as proud and isolated, then turned angrily and slid out as swiftly as a fuming cat.
He sat there. He took a few deep breaths. He went to sleep without a single thought.