Liar by Joanna Gosse Page A

China to close hers. She grabbed his mouth with her tongue. Grabbed his wet cock with eager hands, lifted one leg and slipped Sam’s engorged lower self into her pulsing cave. Sam rammed into her just as a shudder rippled through her.
    “Sam! Oh God. Oh Sam. Saaaaaaaaam!”
    China got the whole pie. Apple pie laced with cinnamon. Her knees buckled and Sam grabbed her ass and ground himself into her faster and faster. China opened her eyes and watched him come. He flung his head back and groaned. Then he stumbled and the pillar that had kept China nailed to the wall, collapsed and they both crashed to the floor, tangled in Sam’s trousers, gasping with shock and laughter.
    “Whoo,” said Sam, “that was a knee trembler.”
    “Jesus, Sam,” complained China, “you’re going to kill me. I’m too old for gymnastics.”
    “That’s your mind talking. Your cave speaks a different language.”
    “Is that so?” purred China.
    “In fact,” said Sam, “I can hear an urgent request for more.” He lowered his head to the whisper. China heard it too and listened carefully as Sam’s expert tongue licked another orgasm out of China’s chatty cave. Now she had her hot apple pie, laced with cinnamon, and topped with vanilla ice cream. Haaaaaagen Daaaaaaaz!
    China and Sam picked up their bruised flesh and underwear from the kitchen floor and staggered upstairs for a brief nap. As China pulled back the sheets she made a mental note not to make the bed when Sam was home. She got tired of making it three times a day.

    An hour later, China awoke with the same question that Sam had answered with sex, which was lovely but didn’t pay the rent.
    “Sam,” nudged China, “wake up. You have to get to the bank before it closes.”
    “You go,” said Sam and rolled over.
    She dragged her lethargic body out of the cozy nest and drove to the bank. The news wasn’t good. The hoped for transfer had not arrived.

    China went to the mailbox and found a letter from the Canada Council. The long-awaited letter accompanied perchance by a hefty cheque. She opened it carefully, holding her breath, and read the signature of doom. “We regret to inform you,” in a form letter.
    It had taken her a week to fill in the application form according to careful instructions. So many slides of her sculptures numbered just so, reference letters and artist’s profile. A carefully worded plea for money, so she could sculpt to her heart’s content, made grantworthy by the great God of the Canada Council.

    Dear China Collins: So sorry, but we regret to inform you that you must now re-invent your life because life as you know it is about to change. You cannot sit comfortably picking your nose on the beach and stabbing your knife into driftwood while the rest of us toil away writing important form letters. Dear me no, you must get off your ass and get a regular mind-numbing job so that you can be miserable like the rest of us.

    God, how she hated being informed. She went home with a funny feeling in her chest. Sam was nowhere to be seen. He’d left a note on the kitchen table. Gone fishing with Bear. Coward! He had snuck out the back door, knowing full well there would be no bank transfer. She brushed her teeth with purpose because purpose was all she had and it was quickly leaking out of her chest. She showered and saw the dreaded dancing lights, the harbinger of migraine. Obviously the need to re-invent China was taking its toll. She quickly swallowed Tylenol and strong coffee and breathed deeply. She refused to let the sudden dip in finances incapacitate her. She would not have a migraine, would not give in to the pain. She would conquer it and switch to Plan B with great fortitude, as soon as she could figure out what Plan B was.
    After a few minutes the dancing lights disappeared and the pressure in her head subsided. Once more her mind had triumphed over matter. She was an artist and the Canada Council be damned!
    China marched out to the carving