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I was making you listen to songs in my car. It was a mixed CD I'd
just made you. We were sitting in the backseat and you leaned over me,
so I got a
whiff of your shampoo. Strawberry-kiwi. You hiked up your dress and
straddled my lap. We kissed and you moved up and down a bit, rubbing
on me
just to prove you could get me excited at will.
 "Let's go to the house," you said. You had been working for a real
estate company, showing people a model house for a subdivision they
were
hoping to build behind the truck stop south of Palmer.
"Let's sit here and listen to music," I said and kissed your neck.
But you kept pleading until I said "all right already" and we got
back in the front seats. I watched you pull down your dress and smooth
it out as
I put the car in gear. It felt like a sledgehammer in my gut how badly
I wanted to feel the insides of your thighs. How suddenly it felt like
a matter of life and death. Having you, every inch of you, every ounce
of your energy.
We drove out past the truck stop into the once overgrown field
that had been leveled by the developers. It was spring but it had
snowed a few days before and the ground was still muddy. We drove
through the makeshift streets, which had been marked with stakes and
neon spray paint so investors could envision the layout. There was one
house at the back of the lot. I parked to the right of it, imagining a
driveway.
"There's a generator out back," you said.
"I'll get it.
You kissed my cheek and told me you would meet me inside. I
trudged through the mud around the back of the house and found the
generator. We'd
been going together almost eight months, which was long enough that
people were starting to have expectations about our relationship. Even
my dad who
had been trying to get me to take a job on the slope with him was now
adapting his strategy.
"You can put some money away for a ring," he had said a few days before.
I was in love with you. Of course I was in love with you. That
was the horrible, gut-wrenching nausea I'd been suffering every time I
looked at you
lately. But I didn't even know what I wanted to do with my life. I
just wanted to listen to music. Or play guitar in the band I'd started
during our sophomore year. I wasn't ready to follow my dad up to the
pipeline.
I flipped the switch on the generator and grabbed the pull crank. I wasn't ready to start a family or have a wife or move into some
valley subdivision. I wasn't ready for kids or a mortgage. I yanked
the cord a second time and the motor groaned to life.
A couple lights came on in the house. You were there in the
kitchen window waving. I didn't know what you thought about any of
this stuff, because I was too scared to ask. I was too afraid you
would say you were ready. For all of it.
You opened the back door, stood out on the porch.
"Coming in?" you said.
I walked up the steps, scraping mud off my shoes as I did. You
took my hand and led me inside, showed me around like I was a
prospective investor. You said things like "crown molding." I had no
idea what you were talking about, but I nodded anyway. We got to the
bedroom and I grabbed you by the hips. I hiked up your dress so I
could see your thighs again.
"The room has a lovely feng shui," you said, reciting another line
from the script the real estate company had given you.
I picked you up and laid you on the bed, crawled between your
legs, pushing your dress ahead of me. You continued to recite your
script, laughing as you went on about whirlpool baths, walk-in
closets, and adjoining rooms.
"Perfect for a nursery," you said.
I tried to tune you out. I focused on your pale skin. I ran my
hands the rest of the way up your dress. I pushed inside you. I only
wanted to listen to the music.
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