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“But if you think I’ll take a bullet for you, you’re dreaming.”
The Mountain Goats, Stars Fell on Alabama
That fall, you liked me more than corndogs and fairs and your burnt-orange Pontiac.
Wrapping your arms around me, pinning me between you and your new paint job even as I warned you about the silver bits on my pockets and you didn’t care about anything but nibbling my ear and licking a line straight down to my neck. While the Ferris wheel lights reflected off the concession stands and lighting up the dark sky, we drove to the fair alone instead of smooshing into the backseat of your aunt’s sedan. Your family had a tradition of spending a fortune on plastic balls to knock your Uncle Tom, don’t you ever let yourself be alone in a room with Uncle Tom, into the icy cold water.
“For all the bullshit he pulls during the year,” you said, out of breath and pulling on my hand because I was walking too slow. You only threw a couple balls, a few weak pitches and your mom cupped her hands around her mouth and boo’d you while you laughed. Your cousins and your dad and your aunts and your booing mother all took turns but I don’t really know how they did because hay was poking me in the back and you were attempting to do the same. We’d snuck off to a dark barn, roped off after they handed out ribbons to the FFA kids.
My yellow skirt was bunched around my waist, legs open and pulled up as you covered my mouth and slid inside of me. Your hair was rough against my smooth cunt, shaved just before and it’s why I took so long thank-you-very-much. You never appreciated shit. Except my body, when you were inside of it and making me feel warm and full, your thumb wet with spit circling on my clit. Your face lit up as the Ferris Wheel turned. Red, green, blue, purple, red. Again and again. In and out and red and green and blue.
I spent the rest of that night in a fucked-well daze. Drunk off dick and the thick greasy air that smelled like deep fried bread and sugar.
You’d pull into my backyard, under the ratty tin carport, bahis firmaları lighting up my living room through the ugly green drapes we never dusted or washed. Mom would listen to NCIS too loud and we’d see if we could fuck totally naked in the car while my parents guessed who’d done it over and over, too engrossed to hear me call out your name. You’d done it.
Neither one of us managed to move out, move off. To college or the city or with a group of friends shoved into a two-bedroom house paying fifty bucks or so for rent. Not us. Not then. We were late bloomers and we’d quietly tip-toe across linoleum and up the stairs to hunch against one another, shushing giggles and holding onto the headboard until the internet told us to fuck on the floor. So we did, your hand pressing against the wall above my head and staring right down into my eyes as you rocked in and out of me. Nothing we could do would stop the wet sounds.
Bridge, movies, date night, your parents were more social than mine and if they ever find out what we learned on their bed, with your laptop turned all the way up, they’d file charges. As soon as their Mercury pulled out of the drive, the lights shining down the dark road, we’d fuck like I’d die if you didn’t plug me up.
Anyway we could do, with me on my knees and pushing back against you. Wetness dripping down my legs and going cold, your fingers digging into the fat of my ass and your balls making that perfect sound. Me on top, nervously holding onto your shoulders as I figured out how to do anything but wiggle back and forth. How to pull my hips up until you were almost falling out, sometimes falling out, and then sinking back down. You rewarded me with a kiss. An occasional spank. Until it felt so good all you could do was stutter, “fuck, fuck, fuck.”
We sat on your great-great-something’s hope chest covered in sweat and pulling on our socks when you’d stop and pull me into a kiss. “I love you so fucking much,” you’d say, back when those words still tasted good in your mouth. “Stay the night, I’ll kaçak iddaa hide you.”
We watched Twin Peaks and X-Files with your arm curled around me and I’d pull it up to my mouth so I could suck on your fingers that still tasted like me.
In winter, we lost our feelings like leaves. You’d ask me stupid questions and I’d answer with stupider answers until we were at each other’s throats over billboards or if you can really get foot fungus in your eye. When you’d whip into a gas station, you’d roll the window down to bicker with me while you threw away 32oz cups and straw wrappers from your floorboard.
We fucked less often and when we did, it was hard and rough. My zipper down in your passenger seat, holding your hand against my clit lest you roam and squeeze my thighs. It was my way of telling you I’d never forgive you for taking away your affection and letting me suffer alone.
We’d pick up your mother’s medication for anxiety and tell everyone it was for her reflux to anybody who’d ask, arguing the moment we got away from breakables which was very mature of us. We’d keep on up the porch steps and through the kitchen. You’d throw the folded paper bag with the vicious staples onto the table. Until we found ourselves on our backs, staring up at your still-fan.
“I’m too mad to fight anymore,” you’d say and I’d agree, my chest felt like it was caving in. My throat was raw.
And I’d wait to speak so you didn’t think I was blaming you, “I’m hungry.”
“Me too. I want Mexican food.”
“There’s an El Charro’s down the street.”
For a minute, for a second, you wanted to argue about the better Mexican restaurant in the next county but blessedly you shut the fuck up and grabbed your wallet. “Sounds good.”
Your fingers slid between mine and we held hands, walking down the cracked sidewalk in the cold air and stared up at gray trees, naked and jutting. Dogs rang our eardrums, barking and snapping at the chain-link fence. We were used to the volume. A block out, we could smell the hot grease and fresh chips. kaçak bahis We walked faster to the pink and red building, matte cacti painted in frozen dances.
Come spring, I’d avoid your car wash where you got down on your knees and stretched out to vacuum your car. Rib-cracking stretches because you didn’t want to walk around. You preferred Hawaiian Hula scent pumped in, then you wouldn’t allow anyone to roll the windows down. “Let it soak in,” you’d say.
Peach Street is a direct route to the mailbox, my bank, the school where my aunt works, and I go around. Go up to the peanut barns and snake my way down. Avoiding the dark brick houses, thin and tall. Where I’d heard cracks all winter long from snow avalanching off the roofs and onto hedges, into the driveway.
“When I was little,” you’d say, every single time it happened, “When I was little Hannah and I were building snowmen and an icicle fell from the roof and bam. Fuck your mother. It went right through.” And you’d lift your hand, rotating it so I could see the faint pink scars on your faint pink skin. You’d been watching too many Russian movies and telling everyone to fuck their mother.
January, the last stretch of winter, when the snow was coming down heavy, you started up again because the roof had dumped more snow onto the driveway. And you started, again, to tell me about the icicle. Raising your hand and everything. You never let me repeat stories, you’d groan in agony until I was too embarrassed to continue and then you’d still be mad at my silence. Our fight was loud, quick. As if you’d told the story like you’d light a match. I said something stupid, love brings out the moron in me, “No, fuck your mother!” Loud enough for your mom to hear. And the roof had covered my car in a mound of snow too deep to escape so I pulled my hoodie up, but it was yours, wasn’t it? I pulled it up and trotted down the broken sidewalk and lived off that anger until it melted off the big, angry hurting gash we’d done to one another.
My brothers went back for my car, tossing you your Radiohead before slipping into the tiny car and driving it across town to me, crying on the front porch with my toes going blue.
Thinking about how much I loved you and worse, how much we tried.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32