Story

11 Dec

She was eating something when she came back. Something in Styrofoam. She was wearing the same black leather jacket she came home in the last time she went away. I had the TV on. The door opened. We looked at each other. I wanted to go and hug her. I wanted to smell that smell of leather mixed with her juices. That stuff that comes out of her armpits, her pores. But I was afraid. I wasn’t sure what she was doing back. She always came back. I never understood why. I felt thin, like the bristles on a broom after it’s been used too many times.    She picked one of the fried things out of the Styrofoam, put it in her mouth. 

   “What is that?” I asked. It felt good to say something. I didn’t care if she answered or not.

   “Want one?” she asked. She held one out. I looked at her arm. 

   I stood up. Walked. I took the thing she was holding in her hand. I didn’t want it. It looked like something deep-fried. I didn’t feel like eating anything. But I wanted to get out of the chair. 

   I held it up. I looked at it. “Thanks,” I said. 

   “Sure.” She had a little black purse hanging off her shoulder. It was Saturday. 

   She went in the kitchen. I watched her legs. Like two pumps. I walked. Sat in my chair. I could hear her in the kitchen. “Got any gum?” she called. 

   She came back into the living room. Looked at me. I saw the way her eyes fell closed when she blinked. I wanted to open my mouth and rest my lips on her face. “You gonna eat that thing?” she asked. I still had the fried thing in my hand. I raised it to my mouth. Put it in. I held it on my tongue. I looked out the window. Clouds rushed over the world like they had someplace to go.

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