though I’ve never consciously thought about it. But I’m afraid the dress will rip right down the side if I do, so I leave my arms at my sides …
… and luckily there’s the fringe right there … … so while we stand there and kiss and kiss, my hands are twiddling, twiddling away at the soft tendrils of leather.
Did I mention he’s just the right height?
For kissing, that is.
And his hair is, yes, that soft. Even softer.
I find out about his hair when we take a breath and then move to the old couch, where Rags often sleeps. He takes the tuxedo jacket and spreads it out over the part where you can see the springs.
“How chivalrous,” I say, which sounds like something my dad would say, which makes me think of my dad, which makes me decide to try not speaking for a while.
Instead, I lower myself carefully onto the jacket and fold my arms across my chest. My heart is going
boom, boom, boom
, keeping time with the
chung, chung, chung
of the industrial ceiling fans. I cross my legs, wrapping the robe around my knee and tucking it under my top thigh.
“Len, I …,” I start to say.
“Shhh …,” he says. He closes his eyes and puts one arm around my shoulder. “Listen.”
Uneasily, I lean into him, keeping my hands firmly positioned so the robe won’t flap open when my weight shifts. My head is against his shoulder and I smell the mustiness of the couch mixing with the smells of his soap, his sweat, his skin.
“To what?” I ask.
“It’s so quiet,” he whispers.
Chung, chung, chung
go the ceiling fans, like giant propellers revving for flight.
“Phhh,”
I hear myself exhale awkwardly.
Chung, chung, chung
. Like we’re taking off.
“Close your eyes,” he says.
Reluctantly, I close my eyes.
Chung, chung, chung
.
We sit so still, just breathing, listening to the fans. It’s almost like I’m dreaming, because I feel myself growing smaller and smaller, nestled there beside him. Lighter and lighter, like a bird under another bird’s wing.
Chung, chung, chung
.
Keeping my eyes closed, I slowly unclench one hand.Timidly, I reach out until I find the warmth between his arm and his T-shirt.
Chung, chung, chung
.
I feel him turn and kiss me again. My forehead this time. Then my nose. Then my mouth again.
And just like that, we take flight.
en works his way down some more. The top part of the smoking jacket parts and the straps of the dress shift because the back of the dress is wide open. Before long, the top of my vintage bomber bra peeks out. Len’s bangs brush against my neck and he kisses the tiny embroidered rose that sits smack at center stage. He looks up at me and cautiously traces one finger back and forth along the lace edge of the cups.
“You’re beautiful,” he says.
“Shut up,” I tell him.
“Why does that embarrass you?” he asks.
“Because I’m not, okay?” I say quietly, snapping out of the moment for a second. “And I’m actually kind of okay with that. So do me a favor and just don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying,” he tells me. “I wouldn’t do that. You can trust me.”
I want to tell him that I
never
trust people. I just don’t, okay, and it has worked out pretty well for me so far.
But then he kisses me again.
“And,” he whispers, “I think you’re beautiful.”
I open my mouth to protest.
And then I shut it again.
And I close my eyes.
And kiss him back.
When I get home, much later, I ease the side door closed behind me and tiptoe through the kitchen.
I glance around the counters for a note. No note. I can’t hear the tinkling strains of her yoga music, so I know she’s not teaching. She could be asleep, but I doubt it. It’s not that late. And she can’t be out, because there would be a note. Still, maybe she just ran out for a minute? If I can just get to my room …
“Hi, sweetie.” No such luck. Her posture immaculate, her ponytail like an actual pony’s tail, my mother sprints into the kitchen.
“Hey,
… and luckily there’s the fringe right there … … so while we stand there and kiss and kiss, my hands are twiddling, twiddling away at the soft tendrils of leather.
Did I mention he’s just the right height?
For kissing, that is.
And his hair is, yes, that soft. Even softer.
I find out about his hair when we take a breath and then move to the old couch, where Rags often sleeps. He takes the tuxedo jacket and spreads it out over the part where you can see the springs.
“How chivalrous,” I say, which sounds like something my dad would say, which makes me think of my dad, which makes me decide to try not speaking for a while.
Instead, I lower myself carefully onto the jacket and fold my arms across my chest. My heart is going
boom, boom, boom
, keeping time with the
chung, chung, chung
of the industrial ceiling fans. I cross my legs, wrapping the robe around my knee and tucking it under my top thigh.
“Len, I …,” I start to say.
“Shhh …,” he says. He closes his eyes and puts one arm around my shoulder. “Listen.”
Uneasily, I lean into him, keeping my hands firmly positioned so the robe won’t flap open when my weight shifts. My head is against his shoulder and I smell the mustiness of the couch mixing with the smells of his soap, his sweat, his skin.
“To what?” I ask.
“It’s so quiet,” he whispers.
Chung, chung, chung
go the ceiling fans, like giant propellers revving for flight.
“Phhh,”
I hear myself exhale awkwardly.
Chung, chung, chung
. Like we’re taking off.
“Close your eyes,” he says.
Reluctantly, I close my eyes.
Chung, chung, chung
.
We sit so still, just breathing, listening to the fans. It’s almost like I’m dreaming, because I feel myself growing smaller and smaller, nestled there beside him. Lighter and lighter, like a bird under another bird’s wing.
Chung, chung, chung
.
Keeping my eyes closed, I slowly unclench one hand.Timidly, I reach out until I find the warmth between his arm and his T-shirt.
Chung, chung, chung
.
I feel him turn and kiss me again. My forehead this time. Then my nose. Then my mouth again.
And just like that, we take flight.
en works his way down some more. The top part of the smoking jacket parts and the straps of the dress shift because the back of the dress is wide open. Before long, the top of my vintage bomber bra peeks out. Len’s bangs brush against my neck and he kisses the tiny embroidered rose that sits smack at center stage. He looks up at me and cautiously traces one finger back and forth along the lace edge of the cups.
“You’re beautiful,” he says.
“Shut up,” I tell him.
“Why does that embarrass you?” he asks.
“Because I’m not, okay?” I say quietly, snapping out of the moment for a second. “And I’m actually kind of okay with that. So do me a favor and just don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying,” he tells me. “I wouldn’t do that. You can trust me.”
I want to tell him that I
never
trust people. I just don’t, okay, and it has worked out pretty well for me so far.
But then he kisses me again.
“And,” he whispers, “I think you’re beautiful.”
I open my mouth to protest.
And then I shut it again.
And I close my eyes.
And kiss him back.
When I get home, much later, I ease the side door closed behind me and tiptoe through the kitchen.
I glance around the counters for a note. No note. I can’t hear the tinkling strains of her yoga music, so I know she’s not teaching. She could be asleep, but I doubt it. It’s not that late. And she can’t be out, because there would be a note. Still, maybe she just ran out for a minute? If I can just get to my room …
“Hi, sweetie.” No such luck. Her posture immaculate, her ponytail like an actual pony’s tail, my mother sprints into the kitchen.
“Hey,
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