beauty beauty beauty
i just got into my building. finally. i don’t have my purse and don’t know if it’s in the possession of friend, foe, or sketchy night club. i should be more concerned than i am but i’ve been writing the rest of this in my head all night, so happily, not literally.
she was the most beautiful woman i’ve ever seen. i stared at her so brazenly, so awkwardly, during all the talk and readings. she looked like something you’d see in a trashy southern bar. her blouse was sheer and floral. her jeans were black. she kept her head sideways as she listened, blonde curls brushing at her sharp points. her head was so far tilted left that her earring lay flat on her cheek. sometimes she’d feed herself the corner of her lip, or stick her tongue out far against her cheek.
she had a camera that was bigger than a clutch but still modest. at one point she took a photo of me. i went to talk to her.
it was all art, all chicago, and all the morality of zoos. at one point she said, “i bet people think you’re real cute.” i kissed her.
her apartment was large and bright, art was stuck everywhere. on one wall she had some 3d figures i was sure were meant as an installation piece. i won’t bother to describe it here. i told her my name was mary. she kissed so deeply and her hair scratched at my cheeks. the top was darker than the tips but there were no roots; i spent so much time playing with her hair.
she was as skinny as me, or skinnier, and much longer, but where i just have bone and skin she had muscle muscle muscle and these full thighs. i could make music running my hands down her stomach. her thighs in jeans made me think of fruit or sculpture and out of them just made me think of flesh. they scratched easily and left these pink lines with red and white centers; little old candy cane stripes against skin with freckles so light you almost missed them. i didn’t.
i sat on top of her, my legs wrapped around. i played with her nipples to make them stand up then fall back. we talked about me. i said, “i love you. i’m not kidding; i am so in love with you.” she laughed this midwestern sort of laugh. all of her was so midwestern. when she smiled her lips didn’t change, all she did was show her teeth. her words had these tails you could trace into elongated As or Es; all of it was new, though. she wasn’t born here.
“do you want to get married? i want to marry you.” i stared at her so earnestly. i wanted to right then; i didn’t mind telling her.
her thighs gripped into me and she flipped me over. she hung her face onto mine, almost mockingly, and i bit at her ringlets. she didn’t stop me. they were so soft they hardly made a sound between my molars.
“tell me about it,” she told me. her fingers had begun to tease my own thighs, so small and soft compared to hers. so unattractive compared to hers. she didn’t mind and twisted her hand over; finger tips tracing me, then nails. sometimes she’d dance her hands up to my cunt, just to feel how wet i was.
“we’d live in a little white house, lace curtains and broken china,” i started. she pushed her fingers into me so hard. they were crossed, like a lie or a hope. “you know, my name’s not mary,”
“no no no no NO.” her midwestern mixed with something i couldn’t grab at turned sweet the angrier she sounded. “keep going.” she meant because my voice had lost itself to moans, the idyll house already pornography. i was about to come.
i told her my name. “i would come home in the afternoons to kiss you and help you work; maybe you’d mind it terribly when i had to go back to work.”
“i would. we’d have the most pathetic fights. i love the real one so much more.”
“around four or five, when i was home to stay, i’d make it better.”
she switched the crossing of her fingers, i came all down her arm.
“keep going.”
it was the most perfect sex, the most beautiful woman. she won’t call me again.
she won’t because i gave her my number a digit off. i don’t know why i did it. i’m sure i’ll regret it forever.
she gave me her card. she said her show’s in may.
