It’s funny there’s a Prince song that describes the experience. But you didn’t know it at the time of the incident. You swear.
You came over to bury the hatchet. A rumor you had nothing to do with was stamped as a public fact. Like classic foolish Americans they did sloppy math and the answer was as close as shaving with a razor with no blade in it. You already said you were sorry on the trip the grocery store. And she accepted it. And yet you are now back here, humming “Ex-Factor” years before it was even recorded.
She is 5’8 and as dark as a Hershey with Almonds, the big block. Her nipples rise and fall like horses in a merry go round fashion as she puts away the groceries. There is an electric bass on a stand in the corner. Dirty laundry is bagged on the floor by the door. It’s Saturday night and you’re watching her do chores. What the fuck is wrong with you?
It is the legs no doubt, long black cherry stems leading up to a bubble titanium couldn’t hide. Lenny is on at full blast. “Are You Gonna Go My Way?”
You do not have regrets about the ending of things. That was a year ago, which in twenty something terms might as well be five. But she still smells the same. And there’s that trance-like expression she wears when she’s pretending to be casual. She’s nervous, hence the chores and the parading of her most pronounced assets back and forth in front of you like it’s the Macy’s Day Parade and Fashion Week rolled into one.
You want her to bring her lips to your ear, the heat from her breath always enough to make your inner ear quiver. You crave the taste of her tongue while sliding in top of yours. You wanna come up behind her at the kitchen counter, pull down those school spirit gym shorts and fold her over until she moistens the inner part of her own thighs.
But you do not go backwards. No more of that! (As if resolutions at 25 mean anything at all). That keeps the explosives safe in a cool and dry place, until she comes with the lit clove and kerosene.
“Do you wanna take a bath with me?” she asks, peeling down to the Christian Dior she was born in and turning the ‘H’ as far as it will go.
“Sure,” you say.
And then it’s all over.