Likelyhood

Written by Emily O'Brien (March 2000)

She sat in bed and touched herself.

It wasn't sexual - no vibrators or dirty novels tonight. It was just a check, making sure that she hadn't imagined that 12 hours earlier he had been there, in her bed, touching her in that awkward way that at times felt wonderful and at times felt dirty. She sighed and thought about getting up to have another glass of wine, but the last one was so cold it reminded her of hot weather which had finally passed, at least for a day.

Miles Davis played on the stereo and she realized that it reminded her of a porno and her dad, well, not together, but in the same thought process. Then it's back to him and the feeling of his fingers up her side, of his mouth not wanting to kiss. She pushed it. Made him kiss her since it's all she wanted was that moment, that pulse of energy that is somewhere between feeling unprepared for a test and dancing on ecstasy.

"Hello."

"Hey"

She knew it was him before she answered. Wasn't that why she was home waiting. Pretending she was tired and hungover even to herself?

"What did you do tonight?"

"I went out with Gail"

"That's good"

"I'm tired"

"Yeah I'm in bed"

And she's thinking, "Please want to come over." The vibrator sitting paralyzed between her legs and she's watching it.

"Wanna come and play"

"No, I don't think that would be a good idea."

"OK."

Ugh.

"Good night"

The phone doesn't ring, but she wants it too. The friends have all come and gone and she's waiting for it to ring, but it doesn't, and she feels with a certainty that the morning light will creep through the windows, and with that the reality of a shower and the fear.

Ice cream.

Ice cream is good.

Miles starts over.

Maybe she should be writing sad poems, but this isn't about poems. It's about spit and smell and the feeling of cold come against her back when it's over and they just cling in sweat and mutual need. Then he snores and she sighs and watches him sleep, afraid he will be gone when she wakes. He would never do that of course, but every time feels like the last time.

"I think we shouldn't be sexual anymore"

ShitÉ.that was a typhoon that just landed in her stomach. She exhaled the smoke of their first cigarette, a right of passage she felt. Him accepting this not-so-pretty part of her.

"What?"

"It just doesn't feel right. The sex part I mean. When I was kissing you in there, after dinner, it just felt wrong. There was no emotion there."

And then she knew, knew she had been right. So she sucked on some bourbon soaked ice and stayed home for a day and cried. Lying sideways on her bed a few days later with no sheets the over played-words came.

"Hold on, hold on to yourself, this is gonna hurt like hell" The notes ran over and over again though her mind until she couldn't think anymore from singing them.

"Hey"

"Hey"

"Do you still want to talk?"

"Maybe next week?"

"OK."

Smoke. Smoke. Hold on.

Wink. He'd WINKED at her. Every bit of good that she's told herself dripped out of her. She couldn't stop staring at his arm and how it felt when he spanked her. She had told a friend about that; as if somehow telling made it likely to happen again. And yes she wanted it to happen again. She wanted it, and the flip in her stomach when he winked. A wink and a fuck, she wanted both. He was the first boy she knew she would let do it. That's if he didn't get scared.

The phone still didn't ring.

Scared.

She didn't like being a psycho, wanting him this badly. Maybe she should have gotten the batteries for the vibrator.

Sleep.

Drunk friend had walked her to the car, funny conversation, weaving down the street but all she could think of was that his hair was the same color as the warm beer that swished in his glass. Then he's bending like he's getting in the car.

"That's how all of my relationships start, I just sort of fall into bed with someone." Ha. Ha.

Well you are about to fall on the sidewalk, friend.

A week ago she may have taken him home, to her bed, her big empty bed. But that was then, and the promises of drunk sex with a thirty year old just didn't cut it anymore. Maybe they never had.

"Hey, missed you at church today, I'll call laterÉ.BEEP"

She stopped answering her phone on Sunday, preferring to let it ring.

No talking, no pain.

Smoke. Read.

Sleep.