Vee
(originally released in FELT TIPS:
Office-Supply Erotica, 2012, 8th Circle Press)
Sylvia, my brightest star, my desire. My lust, my
soul.
She was Lia to her co-workers at the bookstore,
Sylvia to her mother, who clicked her tongue disapprovingly at her
bright blue and hair and her Monroe stud. But to me, she was simply
Vee.
Before you start to think I’m some sort of pervert,
let me assure you. Vee is no nymphet, for all that I wish I had the
talent of Nabokov.
She stood five-six in buckled combat boots that
looked far too big for her gamine figure. Her driver’s license when
she flashed it at me said twenty-one. I’d commented on what she
must look like with her hair tamed and everyday. She’d showed
me.
I didn’t mind her rebellious looks. In truth, I
preferred her with the blue spikes in her short hair, the dark
violet lipstick, the piercings. My first had been a girl at CBGB’s,
and I’d kissed her sloppily in the bathroom, my fingers catching in
her lacquered hair, and on the safety pin stuck through her ear.
She’d taken me home and fucked me thoroughly. From then on, I was
hooked.
Except it hadn’t lasted. Two weeks later I found her
dead of an overdose, her lips blue and cold. Heroin.
I still see her in my mind’s eye, ripped jeans
hugging the curve of her ass, heavy combat boots, their laces
dangling. She made the fire escape rattle, clambering up the steps
to sit high and watch the sun rise. Her worn leather jacket,
smelling slightly smoky, lay under us as we looked up at the
sky.
But here I am in my middle age, sneaking glances
over the cash register from my spot by the notebooks, waiting for
the moment when she’ll be free. The line at her till seems to
stretch for a mile. Christmas.
I wait, my hands clutching a pair of Moleskine
notebooks, their shrink-wrapped covers slick against my palms. I
love these notebooks. I love the feel of their smooth pages, the
easy glide of my pen. I’m quite sure that Vee keeps them stocked
especially for me. I buy little else while I’m here. Without fail,
every week, two notebooks.
“I’d love to read your work
sometime, Alex,” she tells me as she hands over my parcel and the
receipt. She asks me regularly, but I’ve always
demurred.
“One of these days,” I tell her,
smoothing my dark hair in a nervous gesture left over from an
anxious childhood. To lengthen my time, we talk of other things,
until she has to help someone else.
Finally, finally -- the line in front of her till
has disappeared and I can make my way over. It’s my favourite time
of the entire week.
“Alex!” Vee grins at me as I lay
the notebooks on the counter. “I almost thought you wouldn’t be
here. And I love your dress.”
I can’t help the pleased flush that heats my cheeks.
I’d worn this dress for her, its dark crimson a far cry from my
usual muted suits. It seemed appropriate, given what I had to
say.
“I’ve brought some of my work for
you.” I pat my purse and and am rewarded with an even larger grin.
I want to kiss that mouth, with the gap between her front teeth and
the plump lower lip.
“I’ll read it tonight.” Vee puts
my two notebooks in a bag. I hand her a twenty.
“I can’t let you keep it.” Now for
my chance. “But there’s a coffee shop on the corner. Let me buy you
a drink and you can read it.”
“Promise?”
Her fingers brush mine and she hands me my change.
Did she feel that frisson of electricity as I just did?
“What time are you off?” I
struggle to keep my voice even, though the question itself must
betray my eagerness.
“Soon. You’re my last customer.”
She closes the till drawer with practiced ease. My eyes focus on
her lips, soft under their violet paint. Will she taste of
sweetness?
I put my change in my wallet and replace it in my
purse, the regular movement calming my nerves.
“Meet me there?”
“Give me half an hour,” Vee
says.
Her manager is coming near and it’s time to make my
exit.
(originally released in FELT TIPS:
Office-Supply Erotica, 2012, 8th Circle Press)
Sylvia, my brightest star, my desire. My lust, my
soul.
She was Lia to her co-workers at the bookstore,
Sylvia to her mother, who clicked her tongue disapprovingly at her
bright blue and hair and her Monroe stud. But to me, she was simply
Vee.
Before you start to think I’m some sort of pervert,
let me assure you. Vee is no nymphet, for all that I wish I had the
talent of Nabokov.
She stood five-six in buckled combat boots that
looked far too big for her gamine figure. Her driver’s license when
she flashed it at me said twenty-one. I’d commented on what she
must look like with her hair tamed and everyday. She’d showed
me.
I didn’t mind her rebellious looks. In truth, I
preferred her with the blue spikes in her short hair, the dark
violet lipstick, the piercings. My first had been a girl at CBGB’s,
and I’d kissed her sloppily in the bathroom, my fingers catching in
her lacquered hair, and on the safety pin stuck through her ear.
She’d taken me home and fucked me thoroughly. From then on, I was
hooked.
Except it hadn’t lasted. Two weeks later I found her
dead of an overdose, her lips blue and cold. Heroin.
I still see her in my mind’s eye, ripped jeans
hugging the curve of her ass, heavy combat boots, their laces
dangling. She made the fire escape rattle, clambering up the steps
to sit high and watch the sun rise. Her worn leather jacket,
smelling slightly smoky, lay under us as we looked up at the
sky.
But here I am in my middle age, sneaking glances
over the cash register from my spot by the notebooks, waiting for
the moment when she’ll be free. The line at her till seems to
stretch for a mile. Christmas.
I wait, my hands clutching a pair of Moleskine
notebooks, their shrink-wrapped covers slick against my palms. I
love these notebooks. I love the feel of their smooth pages, the
easy glide of my pen. I’m quite sure that Vee keeps them stocked
especially for me. I buy little else while I’m here. Without fail,
every week, two notebooks.
“I’d love to read your work
sometime, Alex,” she tells me as she hands over my parcel and the
receipt. She asks me regularly, but I’ve always
demurred.
“One of these days,” I tell her,
smoothing my dark hair in a nervous gesture left over from an
anxious childhood. To lengthen my time, we talk of other things,
until she has to help someone else.
Finally, finally -- the line in front of her till
has disappeared and I can make my way over. It’s my favourite time
of the entire week.
“Alex!” Vee grins at me as I lay
the notebooks on the counter. “I almost thought you wouldn’t be
here. And I love your dress.”
I can’t help the pleased flush that heats my cheeks.
I’d worn this dress for her, its dark crimson a far cry from my
usual muted suits. It seemed appropriate, given what I had to
say.
“I’ve brought some of my work for
you.” I pat my purse and and am rewarded with an even larger grin.
I want to kiss that mouth, with the gap between her front teeth and
the plump lower lip.
“I’ll read it tonight.” Vee puts
my two notebooks in a bag. I hand her a twenty.
“I can’t let you keep it.” Now for
my chance. “But there’s a coffee shop on the corner. Let me buy you
a drink and you can read it.”
“Promise?”
Her fingers brush mine and she hands me my change.
Did she feel that frisson of electricity as I just did?
“What time are you off?” I
struggle to keep my voice even, though the question itself must
betray my eagerness.
“Soon. You’re my last customer.”
She closes the till drawer with practiced ease. My eyes focus on
her lips, soft under their violet paint. Will she taste of
sweetness?
I put my change in my wallet and replace it in my
purse, the regular movement calming my nerves.
“Meet me there?”
“Give me half an hour,” Vee
says.
Her manager is coming near and it’s time to make my
exit.
Similar Books
