It’s just five in the morning—the sun’s made no plans to rise—but Sharon’s shift at the 24 hr McDonald’s two blocks away ended early, and all evidence of my presence has to disappear before she gets back… including me.
I shouldn’t have come. I’m not the one to console him while he cries about his unlovable wife. And I should have told him enough after his third shot. Better yet, I was supposed to be gone before his homeboy arrived with the weed. Instead we three hotboxed in his car parked on the street, and I got so high I couldn’t feel the ground beneath me. Or his lips when he kissed my neck, back inside the apartment. When he slipped his cool fingers under my shirt, looped his belt around my ankles.
“This isn’t right,” he said, but pressed inside me anyway, and I cried into his oversize shirt while still grappling for his hips, needing to feel him closer, telling myself again and again, as long as you’re under him, you’ll never get over him…
He sits at the end of the bed, fully dressed, his back turned to me. He lights a cigarette, blows smoke toward the spinning ceiling fan overhead. I wish he’d just look at me, assure me that we’re still good, that we can at least remain friends.
You’ll only end up in his bed again, that nagging voice of reason tells me.
I shake into my too-tight skinny jeans, denim scratching against dry skin. I try to ignore the images that arise when my breasts slap against my chest as I bounce. His teeth, his tongue, the urgent ins and outs of his strokes. Last night never happened, I tell myself, if we want it to remain a secret.
Only, I can’t find my bra. I pat my hair for lose ties, hanging Bobbi pins. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look like a fucking slut with no shame, and it’s how he treats me.
“Will you walk me out?” I cross my arms over my chest, tuck my hands under my armpit, try to conceal my sagging breasts, scrapping at my last bit of dignity.
He takes another drag, blows, nods, still avoids eye contact. I follow him down the hall to the front room, where he checks the window before twisting the deadbolt.
“I’ll call you,” he says with a shrug. He leans against the edge of the open door and drapes his arm over the top.
Don’t pick up the phone. You know that he’s only calling because he’s drunk and alone, that voices says again, but in my heart, I want to stand on my tiptoes and stretch for his lips.
He dips his head, pecks me like birdseed, so quick it’s easily swallowed and forgotten. He scans the parking lot for his wife’s car, then pushes me along. The door is slammed shut and locked before I can take the first step off the stoop.
Part of me wants to stay here. Part of me wants to be caught. So I can stop living this lie. I’m drained of dreaming a fantasy that my love, that I’ve loved since high school, will finally love me back.
Ah, Marquessa. Marquessa, Marquessa. Today’s lyrical prompt was all too real for me, forcing me to [regrettably] relive my entire late teens/early twenties. But I won’t try to convince you this story is still fiction, although it is . . . most of it at least . . .