“Your heart is so loud,” she whispered into my shirt. “Hey, next time bring me some of whatever you’ve been drinking.”
The gum had failed. “Really? You drink?”
“Hell yes. Girls do a lot of regular things. Did you think I was tame?”
I relaxed all the way to my bones, farther. “Damn, I like you,” I said, tightening around her thin, thrilling softness.
She nuzzled against my chest, giggled. “Damn, I like you too.” Then she lifted onto her toes, and her eyes traveled down my face, and her mouth opened and the underside of her tongue pressed against her front teeth, and the mouth said finally, “Love you,” and opened again over my mouth, and I felt it warm, soft, everywhere at once.
Southern Gothic
The next day must’ve happened, but I don’t remember it. Waiting and boredom don’t leave much to recall.
A slight drizzle began that evening, and it grew cooler, and I was able to justify the denim jacket I used to hide a quart of beer and carry it out of Riner’s store. I drank it fast, with Margie, under the big magnolia in the park. We both still felt awkward, though. I suggested we sneak by my house and pick up some whiskey I had hidden.
When we got to my block, I let go of her in case any of the neighbors were spying. We walked down the lane, angering dogs, squares of light suddenly creating kitchen windows with wary silhouettes. Passing some yards, you smelled what the families had eaten for dinner. Inside my gate, a clothesline billowed with dampening laundry, my underwear dangling helpless.
“Carriage houses are so neat,” Margie said.
Home suddenly looked fine, old brick, ivy.
I took hold of a pipe bolted to the rear wall and pulled myself up, hand over hand, ignoring the ache of my hernia, my sneakers grinding lichens off the brick. I crawled through my window and dug my whiskey jar out of the closet. I climbedhalfway down, then dropped, Errol Flynn, absorbing the shock by bending my knees as I landed, Margie gasping at me.
We walked back down the lane. I unscrewed the jar, passed it to her, felt the voltage of her hand. She held the jar to her nose. “What is it?”
“Different whiskies, gin, vodka, Tia Maria. Whenever my dad opens a bottle, I skim some. For emergencies.”
“Am I an emergency?” She held her hair back on one side, still smiling at me, and took several cat-sips, then pressed the back of her arm to her mouth, blinked slowly, surrendered the jar. “You’re sweet,” she said. “But that stuff tastes kind of gross.”
I took a big gulp to impress her. Putting my lips on the threaded glass where hers had been gave me an excited, intimate feeling. I settled my arm around her shoulders, the hell with the neighbors, and she leaned into me and slid her arm around my waist and looked up like someone who trusted me completely. I felt the opposite of how I felt with boys. Her hair smelled wonderful, shampoo or perfume. Walking was difficult, but I didn’t care.
“If you ever need a drink,” she said, “you can come over to my house. We have a bar in the den with stools and all. Since my parents split up, they let me do whatever I want.”
We swayed together to the park, the lighted mist like a shower of sparks in a foundry. Chills surged through me, and a pleasant drowsiness.
We crept inside the magnolia, a cave sweetened honey-andlemon by the huge fleshy blossoms. The drizzle muffled everything. We sat against bark. Margie was dark shades of gray now, her face almost invisible, and my mind detailed the shadows so that she was even more gorgeous, unbearable. I told her she was beautiful.
“You are,” she whispered back, face coming towards mine, and our mouths opened together, and I might as well have beenbeautiful, I don’t know, I couldn’t have summoned my own name just then. I couldn’t have said who Margie was, other than an eager mouth burning against mine, making tiny moans that stripped me of any thoughts at all, and I began to forget to be
The gum had failed. “Really? You drink?”
“Hell yes. Girls do a lot of regular things. Did you think I was tame?”
I relaxed all the way to my bones, farther. “Damn, I like you,” I said, tightening around her thin, thrilling softness.
She nuzzled against my chest, giggled. “Damn, I like you too.” Then she lifted onto her toes, and her eyes traveled down my face, and her mouth opened and the underside of her tongue pressed against her front teeth, and the mouth said finally, “Love you,” and opened again over my mouth, and I felt it warm, soft, everywhere at once.
Southern Gothic
The next day must’ve happened, but I don’t remember it. Waiting and boredom don’t leave much to recall.
A slight drizzle began that evening, and it grew cooler, and I was able to justify the denim jacket I used to hide a quart of beer and carry it out of Riner’s store. I drank it fast, with Margie, under the big magnolia in the park. We both still felt awkward, though. I suggested we sneak by my house and pick up some whiskey I had hidden.
When we got to my block, I let go of her in case any of the neighbors were spying. We walked down the lane, angering dogs, squares of light suddenly creating kitchen windows with wary silhouettes. Passing some yards, you smelled what the families had eaten for dinner. Inside my gate, a clothesline billowed with dampening laundry, my underwear dangling helpless.
“Carriage houses are so neat,” Margie said.
Home suddenly looked fine, old brick, ivy.
I took hold of a pipe bolted to the rear wall and pulled myself up, hand over hand, ignoring the ache of my hernia, my sneakers grinding lichens off the brick. I crawled through my window and dug my whiskey jar out of the closet. I climbedhalfway down, then dropped, Errol Flynn, absorbing the shock by bending my knees as I landed, Margie gasping at me.
We walked back down the lane. I unscrewed the jar, passed it to her, felt the voltage of her hand. She held the jar to her nose. “What is it?”
“Different whiskies, gin, vodka, Tia Maria. Whenever my dad opens a bottle, I skim some. For emergencies.”
“Am I an emergency?” She held her hair back on one side, still smiling at me, and took several cat-sips, then pressed the back of her arm to her mouth, blinked slowly, surrendered the jar. “You’re sweet,” she said. “But that stuff tastes kind of gross.”
I took a big gulp to impress her. Putting my lips on the threaded glass where hers had been gave me an excited, intimate feeling. I settled my arm around her shoulders, the hell with the neighbors, and she leaned into me and slid her arm around my waist and looked up like someone who trusted me completely. I felt the opposite of how I felt with boys. Her hair smelled wonderful, shampoo or perfume. Walking was difficult, but I didn’t care.
“If you ever need a drink,” she said, “you can come over to my house. We have a bar in the den with stools and all. Since my parents split up, they let me do whatever I want.”
We swayed together to the park, the lighted mist like a shower of sparks in a foundry. Chills surged through me, and a pleasant drowsiness.
We crept inside the magnolia, a cave sweetened honey-andlemon by the huge fleshy blossoms. The drizzle muffled everything. We sat against bark. Margie was dark shades of gray now, her face almost invisible, and my mind detailed the shadows so that she was even more gorgeous, unbearable. I told her she was beautiful.
“You are,” she whispered back, face coming towards mine, and our mouths opened together, and I might as well have beenbeautiful, I don’t know, I couldn’t have summoned my own name just then. I couldn’t have said who Margie was, other than an eager mouth burning against mine, making tiny moans that stripped me of any thoughts at all, and I began to forget to be
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