Sunday, February 22, 2009

short story [ver 1]

He stood out in the cold, rocking from heel to toe in his worn out sneakers. His hands were pressed against his face as he blew hot air over them in hopes to restore feeling, though he mostly did this because it's what people did in movies when they stood out in the cold waiting.

He looked down at his shoes and noticed that the melting snow near his ankles had begun to creep up his blue jeans, staining them a darker hue. The air was starting to bite at his nose and ears, and little tears of impatience began to form in his eyes after a while but he couldn't leave. A flock of birds silently left a gnarled tree in the distance. This was longer than usual.

The door opened and she came striding out laughing with her head turned back towards the inside. He blinked away his frustration and smiled, as she drew near he could smell her, or at least half of her. She took out a cigarette and he took out his matchbook. She inhaled and looked at him, examining his hair before messing it up with her calloused fingertips. He instinctually pulled away before relenting. Exhaling her smoke he could smell all of her. He picked up her guitar case and they walked to the car. A trail of cigarette smoke and freezing carbon dioxide and biodiesal exhaust.

They drove to the dam, streetlights flowing their glow over the hood and windshield and disappearing into the rear headlight. She pulled up and parked the car in the spot overlooking the gates where the water cascaded down with a terrifying weight. She took out another cigarette and he took out another match.

you don't mind the smoke?

no, it's fine

when i was your age and my sister started to smoke i couldn't stand being in the car with her

oh, yeah, i'm fine with it.
i just like the smell

you've told me that already

sorry. are you nervous?

The sound of the falls churning up foam and the hush of the bending pines in the wind washed over the car and filled its cavity. She dropped her cigarette out the cracked open window.

let's go to the show

She pulled into the lot of a cafe. He grabbed her case and brought it inside. The place felt small and smelled like wet leather. She walked up to the stage and put the mic in front of her, he placed the case at her feet then moved back to find a seat. She began to sing and play. Her fingers moving softly up and down the neck.

and i'd love to see it but it's something you just feel
and i'd love to feel it but it just isn't real

He crossed his legs on his chair and folded his hands in front of him. He kept his eyes at her feet or on the sticky reflective table in front of him. His eyes moved up her jeans, up her loose flowing blouse, past her hanging hair. He met her eyes.

and god is whoever you're performing for
and god is whoever you perform for

He looked away, he didn't notice that she kept looking. He checked his phone and then pretended that he had to scratch the top of his head. Her fingers kept moving. He didn't look up again for the rest of the show. He clapped when she was done and so did the few other people who were there.

that was really good, like, really good

it sucked the mic kept fucking up and cutting out

i liked that you played the one about all the good poets being dead

yeah i was gonna play i'll be laughing but i didn't feel like retuning

oh alright

let's go

He picked up her guitar case and followed her out to the car. She started it up and they sat there for a while to let the heat start up. He clamped his legs together and made himself small to conserve heat. She took out a cigarette and started to drive. She kept it in her mouth until they parked at the dam again.

why did you look away?


He looked up and noticed her cigarette and got out his matchbook, he messed up on the first stick.

during the first song you looked up at me then looked away right away

the lights were really bright


He messed up on the second stick.

here give me those

She took the matchbook out of his hands and put them down in between their seats, still holding on to his hands. His body locked up. He kept his eyes on the matchbook. She put her hand on the back of his neck and her cold fingers send a shiver down his spine. She pulled him towards her and he could smell her. Her lips pushed against his before parting and sliding in her tongue. He shut his eyes tightly. He felt her hand on his thigh and then on his penis. He felt the heat rush his cheek and a cold sweat on his back. She undid his pants and moved them down his legs, she did the same. She was on top of him in the car seat and he was inside of her. He kept his eyes closed. He came.

The sound of the falls churning up foam and the hush of the bending pines in the wind washed over the car and filled its cavity. She moved off him and back into the driver's seat. She took out a cigarette and grabbed the matchbook. He opened the window so he couldn't smell her. His head rested against the taut seat belt, as if hung in a sling.

She drove them back, leaving a trail of smoke and freezing carbon dioxide and biodiesal exhaust.
She parked the car, looked at him, grabbed her guitar case and went inside. He walked back in the cold. He looked up at the moon, its glow amplified and its details clear through the cold winter's night air. He looked down at his hands as little tears fell and pooled in his palms.

In the distance a flock of birds silently left their barren branches.

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