Her eyes the blue of a southwestern sky. No makeup. Lots of freckles.
Once on a chartered bus back to Indianapolis from Detroit she woke
me up kissing my face. She was drunk, didn't remember a thing later.
She has just finished confessing to me a dream in which she knelt
between my thighs. I wonder if I hear someone calling my name,
if I am needed elsewhere but, alas, this is only my imagination.
"Jen," I ask, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, "why would
you dream such a thing?"
"You tell me," she counters, as if I am somehow to blame.
I don't want her that way. I never did, though she exudes a fragrance
sweeter than the honeysuckle scent I often wear. I like men, I adore
Daniel, and Jennifer is making me feel extremely uncomfortable. She
grins at me suddenly, and this transforms her into a teenaged waif.
She's tiny like me but blonde where I am dark; the dusting of hair
on her arms shines silvery in light. I try not to think about where else
her hair might glisten.
Later we talk about the men who've been inside us, the size and shape
of their cocks, what we liked or didn't like about them. I mention Daniel
more than is necessary, invoking his presence beside me. Her hands
wave him away as if he is of no consequence. Her husband is just as
easily dismissed.
We lapse into silence. Those blue eyes -- they are impossible to look
away from. I want to kiss them closed so I might have a chance to flee.
Her white hand on my thigh keeps me still.
"At least admit you want me," she finally says. I am shivering all over
beneath a hot sun. Slowly I press my lips to the candy of her pink
mouth, exploring it delicately with my tongue. She tastes so unbelievably
sweet.
Rising to leave I say, "This is all, Jen. All there is." She nods, smiles,
then looks away.
Tonight I will dream of kneeling between her thighs.