so um, 'ive started my 'novel' which due to my lack of commitment im sure will be a short story.
i don't feel like typing up what i want to acco mplish in it yet, instead i'll just let you enjoy it for what it is at the moment, without my useless dribble. and im lazy, and a slow typer. beware, i havent proof read yet. tell me if things are awk.
9:45. Every time I look at the clock it seems to be 9:45. The clock is like the zodiac. Every minute lays its own little blanket of moods and events. 9:45 makes me itch. The second I get situated with satin-edged 9:44, it gets yanked off with the rearranging of those little red grains of rice, and, startled, my eyes go to the clock. 9:45 puts a bullhorn to my ear and shouts:
“Get a life loser!”
Somehow, 9:45 knows I’m idly channel surfing out of habit- I know the this programming block well enough to know there’s nothing on- and helplessly waiting for the phone to ring.
I settle on Court TV. At least they’re consistent.
Its not that I have no one to call, its just, I like to wait for my best option. God I hope she calls. I can’t call her. No, I’ve got to keep the score even. We’re one, one. 2 callbacks will weaken my appeal for the evening. She’ll know I’m watching American Justice.
9:47. My hand always seems to make it into my pants at 9:47. It takes me two minutes to find a solution to 9:45’s harsh clarity.
I go back to yesterday’s 1:20. We’re back in her room, always her room, after this mutual quotidian courting that I engage out of insecurity, and I think she goes along with out of habit. We’ve made the rounds of my friends houses-its always my friends houses, all with the same conversations and backdrop television. At least that night, the drinks changed, and the quality of pot was significantly better than usual. Sometimes she sit beside me and poke at the holes in my jeans or sit so close without visibly touching me, but I could feel her breath like a hand at the side of my face. She was attempting to feign interest in the muted nameless TV show in the corner to her right. She had to turn her head, and I sat between them. My cheek was in the way of her breath. But despite the necessity of her actions, the seemed so intimate, and the television watching, a guise, for her secretly wanting to be closer to me.
Other times she’d cozy up to my friends, and they’d laugh together with such habitual ease. When she isn’t there she’d finds a subtle way into their anecdotes. It bothers me that she gets along with my friends. I know that if I weren’t there, she would be fine. They respected her, but I wish they would tell me that they want to fuck her. It gives me upper hand. They call her my girlfriend, I never object. I like the way it sounds. But we never talk about it. With her, things just happen. We get by without the title as a catalyst. But I hate the way I’m not obligated to an explanation when she hangs out with other guys. But I love the way that every night with her is a game. My uncertainties about where we stand force me to never be idle in our relations, she makes me a great conversationalist. Or maybe the truth is that I never bring it up because I don’t want to find out she’s less interested in me than I am in her.
Every time I find myself in me with her, I find myself as excited as if it were the first time. Despite the near consistent predictability, I always feel I have to slyly seduce her. We slowly go from trivial conversation, to pretend sleep, to forced moans and stretches that bring the front of my thighs to the back of hers as her uninhibited hair creeps over to my side of the pillow. Then somehow from these humble beginnings we become as tangled as the balls of yarn seeking refuge in the sheets she’s violently kicked to the end of her bed.
My hand sinks deeper into my now fully unbuttoned jeans as it recalls last night’s first plunge into her ubiquitous mass of hair, which at that point made its way into every uncovered orifice on my head. Only my lips escaped the assault, they were closed; I was wetting them with my tongue in anticipation of parting hers.
I grabbed her by her roots at the nape of her neck and lifted her out of her little pot of molded green flannel that had molded around her pale fetal shape. I pulled her to my nose to smell my freshly picked prize and her hair fell like petals around my chest and on my chest, despite it smelling like coconut. Her hand dropped instinctually to that little cove behind my ear lobe. That’s always the first place her hand goes, as if it were the leather strap bull riders wedge their hands under to hold the selves in place. Now I knew she wasn’t going anywhere. I didn’t mind, I love her on top of me. It’s my only confirmation.
I reached for the spot after her ribs end, and her severe hips are yet to begin, and she arched her back and threw back her head to clear her hair, only for it to fall back in front of her eyes blocking her vision. As result her mouth found my nose where she expected my lips, and the vacuum of her lips over my nostrils caused my ears to pop. I seized her renegade hair and gathered it at the back of her head, with a grip tight enough for he to control its mobility. As my fingers dug deeper in memory, I go faster at my self in present. I groan and open my eyes to what should me her gently parted lips, but find in their place a low budget reenactment of investigators triumphantly finding a missing corpse.
I try to go back to 1:37, but 10:01 has a tenacious grip. When I go back to that in progress painting on the inside of my eyelids everything is out of proportion, and the color of her walls escapes me.
Why hasn’t she called yet? She said she’d call at 10:00. Any other time then when we’re in bed she seems so naturally apathetic, in a way that I try to mimic, but can’t care but to make her care. Her apparent inaction makes me so aware of my every move that I always find myself resenting her out of my own fault. She is that absurd space between what I am and what I want to be able to be, and attempting to reconcile the two makes me feel alone.
Shit, i'm buzzing. Fuck, its Shawn.
“No man, I’m working on my thesis for that Camus paper. I’ll call you in half an hour.”
That should be enough time. I’m giving that bitch half an hour. I look down and realize my hand is still in my pants.
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Oh thank god.
“Hey!” my voice cracked, the greeting rushed itself out, as it had been waiting to give this greeting since yesterday’s goodnight.
“No, no its cool, I was just working on my thesis for my philosophy class, its on a book by Camus called The Myth of Sisyphus.”
The words were flying out of my mouth; she makes me nervous on the phone, which gives my speech an overly enthusiastic jolt.
“Oh yeah, I forgot you read it.”
Shit, I forgot she was the one to suggest the book in the first place.