4am copy

It’s four AM and she’s still staring at her ceiling, willing her mind to just shut off. We can go over it again tomorrow, she promises it, just give me six hours. It doesn’t listen. Rain is drumming against the window rhythmically, fat drops leaving fat trails that glisten from the street lamps outside.

The events of the day race through her mind, over and over and from every angle. Regardless of how life changing they were, it’s a life that will continue tomorrow.

And I’ll be damned if I’m not ready for it she thinks to herself, so just give me six goddamn hours.

It doesn’t listen.

Bang bang bang

The sound startles her, but her surprise at someone calling this late is immediately countered with the knowledge of exactly who it will be.

She gets up and goes to the door in her makeshift pyjamas; a top two sizes too big and a pair of track pants with long drawstrings she’s tried to cuten up by tying in a little bow. Usually it’s plain underwear but tonight’s a cold one.

When she reaches the door she takes a quick glance through the peephole. Careful, perhaps, but a tried and tested method to avoid being raped in your own porch.

It’s him, of course.

Better safe, right?

She opens up and he’s standing there, swaying slightly like a tree in a breeze. His hair is flat against his head, as wet as his clothes. There’s the briefest of silences between them.

“You awake?” He asks.

She stares him out for a second. What?

“No,” comes her curt reply. Cautious, almost.

“Why not? It’s four AM” he says as he walks past her into her apartment. The smell of eighty-three dollars worth of tequila and the incredible smell of the storm follows him in.

“Are you drunk?”

“I was until about an hour ago,” he says, grinning. He turns to face her as she closes the door and the momentum causes him to stumble back a few steps. He’s left a trail of little puddles across her hardwood floor.

As he catches his balance his eyes begin to drift – not entirely of his own accord -, coming to rest on her college shirt. OAKWOOD is emblazoned across it in big blue letters, the K and the W disappearing into the valley between her breasts.

She turns her head as he comes closer, so close she can feel his hot breath on the side her face. He tugs at the bottom of her jersey to separate the letters. Baggy as it is, her top slips down precariously and threatens to betray her decency.

“ ‘Bama girl, huh?”

“It’s not mine,” she says, her hands fumbling behind her. She tugs the back of her top so the front zips up and out of his hand, her collar straight to her neck like a noose being tightened.

“Well if you aren’t the all-American girl they’d have me believe you weren’t.”

He takes one careful step forward; left foot first and then dragging his right into line.

Toe to toe he leans forward and kisses her neck with his wet lips, once, twice, up to her ear. His lips move softly against it. She turns, if only to stop his tickling, and rests her forehead against his.

Eye to eye he turns her face up with the tip of his nose and leans in.

They kiss, softly at first, and then suddenly he’s parting her lips with his, cocking his head to the right and clamping airtight around them. A few seconds later and she pulls away.

“Don’t do that,” she whispers, embarrassed she’s even kissing him.

“Do what?”

“The Hollywood kiss. The desperate attempt to swallow each others face.”

He smiles, pride untouched – a perk of intoxication – and leans forward again. He kisses her on the lips, lightly this time. And again. Small drops of water fall from the tips of renegade strands of hair and land on her cheeks and nose. He continues to kiss her as their mouths slowly open, their tongues now so tentative it’s as if they were back in sixth grade, their first time all over again.

There’s an undeniable electricity on the air as they continue to probe this strange, nostalgic experience. Without knowing how they got there she realizes her hands are in his hair. Without thinking to he’s pulled her close, holding her tight as if afraid to let her go, her shirt now darkened and damp. Despite his inebriation she can feel his competence hard against her stomach. There’s a flash from outside that could only be lightning, its inverted shadows stretching from the Palladian window in her room and creeping down the hallway towards them. She looks up at him with an urgency in her eyes and grabs the front of his shirt. In an awkward movement it’s off and she throws it to the floor against which it slaps, heavy and wet. She slides a hand into the waistband of his trousers and, with this commanding grip, pulls him backwards through the corridor towards her bedroom.

Somewhere in the distance the thunder finally claps.


~ by Joseph Blame on June 30, 2010.

One Response to “Insomnia”

  1. Very nice, you have the right balance there, minimum slush, maximum dirty dream. I like it, I hope Kiss of the Womb follows the same suit 🙂
    I really like the choice of time in this, 4am is such a weird hour of the day, everything feels like a dream regardless.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: