Saturday, March 7, 2009

No One Tells You These Things by JPR

I bring the car to a stop outside her house. I pull the handbrake on and turn the ignition all the way off. We sit in silence for a moment as I gaze at her profile. It's dark outside; it must be late by now.

How many times have we been here before, exactly like this? I feel like I've been holding my breath forever, but somehow managed to stay alive. I say something to her, idle, superfluous. I reach an arm over her shoulders and draw her towards me. She lifts her head and looks up at me. I crane my neck down and bring our lips together. She kisses me back and with her lips still pressed against mine, starts to shift on the bench seat.

Now I have both arms around her and run my hands up and down her back, the fabric of her shirt catching on my fingers. She feels warm underneath her shirt.

I lift the back of her shirt slightly and slip a hand underneath, feeling a slight tickle as my fingers brush against the soft down covering her skin. My other hand slips in and I press my hands firmly against her back as I kiss her more vigorously. My hands start to round the curve of her hips, making their way to the sides of her ribs. A finger hits the edge of her bra and I slide my hands back down.

I move into the safer territory of her back, bumping over her bra strap as I fumble my way around. I feel the cool metal clasps against my fingers again and again as I wonder if I have the courage to attempt releasing them. She must know what I'm thinking; could at least give me some kind of a sign. Alas, no such sign comes and so my fingers continue to trip over the fabric.

To compensate, I pull her closer toward me. I'm so excited I just want to wrap myself around her and press my body against her as hard as I can. I want to push my full weight onto her and pin her down. But I just keep kissing her.

After a few minutes of this, she pulls away for air, dropping her head as she mutters something like, "And my shirt is going to stay on tonight." I don't know if I ever heard more disappointing words spoken. What am I supposed to do? No one ever told me when or where to cross that line.

But now it's too late. She's opening the door, kissing me one last time, then the door is shut and she's gone, leaving me unable to protest, silent and frustrated. I can't see her through the steam that has condensed on the windows. I see a distant light go on above her door that means she's about to step inside.

I start the car, furiously wiping at the windscreen with the side of my hand. I drive away too fast with a sickly sweet taste in the back of my throat. I grit my teeth, pushing my lips together over them. I can still taste her.

Between my legs there is a solid ache that almost hurts. She took me so close, and then closed the door.

I press my legs together as I try to drive. I replay the events in my head, wondering where I went wrong, what I could have done differently. After all, no one tells you these things.

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