ell
me who to kill,” he says to the ceiling. “I’ll
kill anyone for you.”
He loves me that much. I move my hand between the sheets in
his direction until I bump blind flesh, and then rest my fingertips
on his smooth-muscled thigh. His flesh still breathes that warmth
of fiery friction: body on body, until we fell apart like two
ripe halves of a whole, done.
“How about the Pope?” I say. “How about my
mother? How about yours?”
“How about we do it again?”
“Man does not live by boinking alone.”
“Boinking?” He bounces onto his side to face in
my direction, tucking his right hand beneath his cheek, and my
hand slides from his thigh back onto the sheet. “Did you
say boinking?”
“Didn’t,” I snap. I press the tip of my tongue,
just the tip, through my teeth at him, but it’s too dark,
he can’t see me. For all he knows, I am smiling sweetly.
Sweet as cherry pie. Sweet as berries ready to burst. My fingers
play with the creases in the sheet, pulling them up into mountains
and pressing down valleys between us.
“How you lie, woman, how you lie.”
“How you lie here with me, that’s how much you care.”
But he can’t hear it in my voice. That edge, that sliver
on the tongue, that cool ice. I roll my lies and my truths on
my tongue, sweet as honey, and he is blind to the difference in
the dark of after-love. Like all of them.
“Baby, baby,” he hums, and I can tell by the melty
sunshine in his voice, he is smiling. When he presses his face
against the side of mine, I feel the upward curve of his lips.
Knew it.
“Neighbor’s cat?” I prod. “My sixth
grade math teacher?”
“Kill anyone,” he laughs. My jolly errand boy.
“I bet you think I’m kidding.”
“Oh, you my naughty,” he teases, his warm palm gliding
over my breast, over and over, like I’m the cat.
I turn my face, suddenly, so that at first he pulls back, a
little stunned, but then immediately closes in again. Mouth meets
mouth. I let him taste me, deep, lingering, soft, then hard. There’s
a ripple effect, and he rises against my hand.
I push him back down flat and slide over to cover him, one knee
between us, the other to the outside. I lick the tip of his nose,
move my mouth away from his when he reaches for me.
“Crossing guard end of the block,” I whisper. “Deli
woman slicing my ham. Bank teller shortchanging me a dime.”
“Anybody,” he croaks. “Anybody. Baby. Anyone.”
[END]
© 2006 Zinta Aistars - Contributor's
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