(Please vote for the following entry with a Yes or No)Temporary Duty August, Mississippi Gulf Coast She got us another, double Jack on the rocks for me, some cherry liqueur-tinged horror for herself.
She watched me watching her. She was older, mid-20s, with straight Indian-black hair cascading over her shoulders halfway to her mid-back, and long dancer’s legs shaped by strappy, spike-heeled “fuck me” shoes.
She walked toward me, smiling, shimmering in midnight indigo, her one-piece mini and ribbon choker of satin. Her lips and nails were dark, liquid ruby.
She sat the drink in front of me, turned, and effortlessly slid onto my lap. My arm automatically circled her, pulling her to me, thigh and satiny nylons blood-warm under my other hand --
I am not going to do this.
"Thanks, not interested," I said, smiling. I started to push her off my lap.
"Oh, please, get over yourself," she laughed, her arm around my neck, "you told me all about your Jonnie. I get it. You’re taken. I think it's sweet. I just wanted to give you a hug because you're a nice guy, and there ain’t many of you left." She gave me a kiss on the forehead.
She suddenly put her foot up on her knee and reached down to unstrap the high heel. Shifting weight on my lap, sliding friction, radiating heat, shifting blue midnight, secret flesh --
"They look great, but I hate these fucking things," she whispered conspiratorially in my ear, and, sliding and shifting on my lap again, reached down to pull the other one off.
Morning I woke tangled in her, drowning in an oily smog of stale perfume, whiskey, hashish, sweat and sex -- disoriented, I rose, stumbled to the bathroom and splashed my face with the coldest water I cold coax from the rusting faucet.
The dripping ruin in the mirror stared; unbelieving fingers traced perverse, terrible journeys written in flesh. Bites, bruises, long scratches and crime-scene splashes of dusky ruby smeared on arms, chest, back, and thighs -- my nostrils flared. I reeked of her, a rich, dark, earthy musk; it coiled thick around me and deep, deep, deep, down in primitive, swirling, black-cobalt depths, slithering things stirred.
Once more.
I vomited, hard, and again.
Purged but for bile and blood, I washed my face, scrubbing her away. I went back into the bedroom and pulled on my levis, then barefoot into the kitchen.
Straddling a kitchen chair, I smoked foul menthols I’d found in her purse; through the open door I watched her sleeping, sprawled on the destroyed bed, raw, disheveled beauty turned almost tawdry in the hard morning light. She had a good body, but was an overblown delta rose, aging before her time.
I was AWOL for hours. I didn't care. I could barely breathe.
She stirred, slowly waking. She didn't see me at first, and was surprised when she did. She'd clearly expected that I'd left. She rose and stretched expansively, all tumbling hair and long legs, and padded over to me, naked.
"'Mornin', lover," she smiled, leaning down to kiss me. I recoiled and pushed her away; surprised, she nearly fell.
"What the fuck's your problem?" she snarled, hand back to strike. I sat defenseless, awaiting the blow.
"Hey, I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean it. I can't explain, just please don't..." I stubbed the cigarette viciously into the ashtray on the table. "I'll leave."
"Suit yourself," she snapped. "I wanted to get some breakfast, but you can just pack your shit and get the fuck out."
"Yeah -- Look, you need to know it's not you. I mean it. I just -- ah, fuck it, I'm sorry."
Suddenly, she softened.
"Yeah, you said that. ‘Sorry.’ Girlfriend there -- me here with you – remorse, right?" She laughed sharply.
She walked back to me and carefully reached down to touch my cheek with her fingertips, looking into my eyes.
"It ain't the first time. But I thought you were different; maybe you really liked me."
Shutters slammed down over the flicker of pain.
"Ah, well," she said indifferently, turning away, "It don't keep us from getting breakfast, does it?"
She walked toward the bedroom, then stopped and turned to me, pouting her ruby lips, and slowly running crimson-nailed hands down her body.
"Admit it though," she said breaking into a bitter leer, "You’ve never done THAT with your little Jonnie."
Her laughter rolled through the apartment like judgment day.
If I'd had a gun I would have killed her on the spot.
A Week Later Jonnie, alone, pale with fear, was calling my name, her voice vanishing in the wind whipping her hair and white dress.
I was slow, too slow; suddenly there with my Jonnie was the woman, all tumbling black hair and roiling midnight. She saw me in the distance and smiled; the satin dress swirled and fluttered to her feet. Standing naked in the shimmering indigo puddle, she leaned close and whispered, crimson lips nearly touching Jonnie’s ear. I couldn’t hear her, what was she saying?
But I knew.
Bloody fingernails traced down over breasts, belly, hips, between thighs; still she whispered her curse as Jonnie watched, astonished. She put her hand to Jonnie's heart, a gentle touch of fingertips on the white cotton of her dress, and Jonnie gasped a great, agonized breath, falling to her knees. I pushed her away from Jonnie and she stumbled, then walked toward the bedroom, leering over her shoulder.
Jonnie looked up at me, broken, eyes bright with pain. Ruby drops marking the woman's touch spread from Jonnie’s heart like pools of spilled wine. The woman’s laughter rolled like judgment day.
"Admit it, now,” she demanded. “What have you done to your little Jonnie?"
I snapped awake, pen still in hand.
God, what could I possibly write to her?
I dropped the pen to the desk. Nothing. What could a dead man have to say to those he's left?
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