Sixteen months and several
lifetimes later I will have just gotten done having sex all day, pulling my dick out
of her body like some arthrurian sabre, holding it uyp, feeling the wetness of
her body as she mandates once again that I do nothing short but fuck her brains
out, I will remain with her in her bedroom, her body with the scent of apples,
I will kiss her forehead and make love to her again. We are both twenty years
old. We will try new positions. We will use each others respective limbs as a
vehicle to usher us to someplace we have never been before. We will make
promises. We will make post-coital vows. For some reason, apres sex, in lieu of
cigarettes, there is always a post coital Sprite.
“Have a lot of sex, drink a
lot of Sprite.” I say, in jest.
I pull it out. She will
grapple it like some kind of atari joystick from the mid-80's. She will ask me
if I realize how in love with me she is. I will tell her I love her and kiss
her forehead in the doorway of her dorm goodbye.
She has been wearing the
confirmation ring my grandmother gave me in 8th grade, the ring I
wore when I adorned my limbs in an almost pastoral cloak, binding myself into a
theology, a dogma, I have been instructed all my life is the correct way to
live, marrying Jesus. The confirmation ring inside reading my
moniker-slash-initials-DVB. The ring I wanted to mail to Harmony. The ring I
almost gave to sarah Thuey, the ring I slipped on Jana's lithe ring finger the
first night we got naked, the night I spent the night in her dorm, lying to my
parent's, telling them I was attending the ficitious annual B. Dalton holiday
christmas party at Dunlap. Parking my 77 Chevette outside the penumbra's of Geisert
Hall so as my father would not optically assay it by chance had he been driving
down Main street early saturday morning, Jana, who called me up the sunday
night after thanksgiving, after she returned home from South Padre for the
first time, after I had just called Megan and left a meesage on her answering
machine (a message, she will later tell me that she heard, that she was in the
same room at the time her her voice
caroled like a bird through the electronic beret-sized stationary console,
claiming that she was in the room when I called and left a message but for some inexplicable reason she could not hear my voice or call me back,
not at that time anyway, and hearing the phone I will breath into four months
later, spending three hours a night wading in the orchard of Megan's voice,
that night, the phone ring, it being Jana, she asking me out for our inaugural
date and how sixteen months after boarding that plane and heading home from
Appleton I will simply inquire to her if she stood by the window and watched
the plane I had just previously boarded take off and Megan will pause and tell
me ya, know, I don't think I did.
When I ask her why she will
remain silent before telling me.
“I think I just got back in
my car and went home and did homework.”
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