West Coast By
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Edmund and Helen at the airport Days Inn. A rough and tumble little tryst. His erection requires a series of justifying mantras, ones that are said half-squinted, under the breath. He wonders smiling if it was his tears that attracted her, or the way he nodded good-bye, knowingly, as he left the plane. Or the way he instinctually checked her skirt as they both waited for the shuttle. He thought about her skin, the way it had been affected by all that recycled air. He had no idea how old she was.
His phone beeped during. Afterwards, when he checked it, it was May: "Land okay?" Cheating in the age of texting is a gruesome procedure. Her ghost knocks upon the door and it's fine to just ignore it. And yet, simultaneously, he became more excited about May. About his decision. "Yep, made it!"
May jogs in cold spring. As she crosses streets, she often tries not to stop, not to break pace. She nears Elm, and a car is approaching. It's not really a close call, but she paces up a little to make it look like she's making an effort. And at the grass, her breath somehow still visible in late April, she turns to glance at the car that she sped up for. A black two-thousand-and-who-cares ToHondia Something. The way it passes, so perfectly at the same speed, as if she had never been there, it seems that the world closes up behind you. If you don't move, you won't survive, and as soon as you're gone it just closes right up behind you. When you jog there's only room for one thought at a time.
[Buy]Posted by Dan at April 27, 2012 12:19 PM