|
The
One, The Last
This
whole day has reminded me of eleventh grade. I
woke up and did things I hadn't done since then.
I woke up and opened a sealed box and smelled
it's contents and sobbed into the beigey faux
silk material and then threw up. Then I beat off
and went back to sleep.
By now, it's ten o clock and she's asleep and
I've thrown up twice. I haven't thrown up since
the eleventh grade. Until this morning. It
should have been some kind of sign that she
would be back in my life. I should have known. I
shouldn't have let her take that bubble bath.
She's sloshing about in the bath tub and I'm
sitting on the toilet looking at her when she
talks but trying not to look at her body. Not
making eye contact most of the time. Looking
past her. It's three years later and she's
softer looking. Warmer. Beautiful. Not teenage
girl pretty with blush and short skirts.
Beautiful, angelic. Her skin glows and her
mascara doesn't run with the bath tub water
because it's nonexistant. And I still love her.
I should not have let her talk me into sitting
with her while she bathed. To catch up.
Whatever. She's relaxed and steamy and shiny and
I'm uncomfortable and confused sitting on the
toilet and trying to hide an erection.
Her cheeks begin to tint, but not in an
embarassed, coy girl way. More like the water's
just too hot or she's gotten too much sun. A
Journey song is on a radio station that I
haven't listened to since the eleventh grade.
We're listening to it because she said she
wanted to listen to it. Her eyes are on me, and
I shift, and she notices that I'm uncomfortable
and attempting to conceal a boner and she says,
"I'm not going to fuck you."
That's not going to make it go away. I just nod.
She' such the Godly little bitch that she's not
embarassed. She's not ashamed. She's wide and
open and free and wind blows her hair about her
face, even when it's not windy. I hate her.
"I've known you too long," She left
me. "I love you too much," She
deserted me. "I miss you, though." She
was the last.
I shouldn't have let her take off her clothes. I
shouldn't have let her get in the bath tub. But
before that, I shouldn't have let her in the
house.
Before that, I shouldn't have fallen in love
with her.
She's in the bath tub and foam and bubbles and
water is everywhere. I'm the schmuck who gets to
clean it up. She's in the bath tub and I ask
her, Why are you here?
She asks me to turn up the volume on the radio.
It's a Beatles song. I haven't heard this song
since the eleventh grade. I ask her the same
question, in the same exact way, low and
mysterious and hostile (atleast, that's what I'm
going for) and she just grins at me and stands
up and shaves her arm pits. With my razor. She's
pulled this same exact stunt many times before.
Mariah, I say, Mariah, why are you here? I need
to know. You can't play anymore games with me. I
can't do this again. You were the last.
She climbs out of the tub, wet and bubbly and
soft and shiny. Her hair is damp and in a low
bun, like a bellerina's only messy. And her
bangs are all brushed to one side. Her thin,
thin, long, long, beautiful chocolate brown
hair. I love her. The last what? She asks for
the baby oil and I say I have none. I'm a bad
liar.
"Yes you do, where is it?" She's
digging for it in cabinets and drawers and I
look guilty so I just tell her where it is. And
she lubes up. She looks like a porn star now and
I start to assume that porn stars have very
soft, very smelly skin. I'm sure I'm wrong,
though. She wraps in a towel and walks like a
glorius Queen spider and collapses on my bed. In
my bed. Nude. Gorgeous. And she's already made
it clear that she's not going to fuck me. This
reminds me of the eleventh grade.
The clothes she wore over are wet and she's
wondering why. I leave the room and come back
with a box of her things. A box full of clothes
and jewelry and photos and make up and trinkets
that are utterly useless to me. I don't know why
I still have them and neither does she. She puts
on the beigey fake silk slip and a pair of black
underwear that look too small on her. They're
from the eleventh grade. She left them here and
I kept them and neither of us are sure why.
"The last what?" she asks again. Led
Zeppelin is on the radio now. She's in my bed,
under my blankets, in clothes that belonged to
her three years ago. The last everything. The
last...everything. I feel like I'm going to
throw up again. "Jesus Christ,
Billy.." she's speechless and beautiful and
in my bed. I hate her. Her eyes are wide. And
she stands up and lights a candle and turns off
the lights. She kisses me on the forhead and
crawls back into the bed. She hogs the blankets.
In a very soft, very fragile, slow voice she
says "I'm sorry." And then, even lower
than that, in a voice that reminds me of
withered trees and single blades of grass,
"I still love you." I sit for a very
long time. Silent, in the light of this candle,
in the light of this girl. Still not sure why I
saved her things or why she came back. I'm
pretty sure that by now she's asleep and there's
a Supertramp song on the radio. It makes me
think of the eleventh grade.
She left. She didn't just leave me. She left
everyone. She left the whole town. Packed up and
disappeared. I cried. I slept with her things in
my arms. I cried more. She left me a letter
saying that she needed to get out, she needed to
escape. Her whole life was a Bruce Springsteen
song. Baby, she was born to run. She also left
tow hundred dollars, half a book of stamps and a
toy dinosaur. The stamps are gone, the dinoaur
is under my mattress and the two hundred dollars
bought many subsciptions to naughty magazines.
Lovers comp. And then, today, out of no where,
she came back. She came back and got naked and
took a bath. She used to do that in the eleventh
grade.
When I was sure she was asleep, or half asleep,
or just faking really well, I went into the
bathroom and threw up. I brushed my teeth and
took a sip of the flat root beer she brought
with her. She was using a straw. She used to
hate straws. There was a filmy goo on the straw.
Chap stick. It smelled like berries. I loved
her. I went back to my room, my bed and touched
her face, stroke her hair, kissed her nose.
Things I hadn't done since the eleventh grade.
And I loved her so much right in that moment
that it hurt. It was a pain. It was worth it.
I curled up next to her and fell asleep. Like a
little cat. I didn't touch her for the rest of
the night, and I didn't have any blankets. And I
still loved her. |
