Again, a day early. Friday might not work well for me
“You’re mad.”
“I’m not.”
I waited for the ‘it’s just …’ she crosses her arms when she takes off a t-shirt, grabs the hem with her wrists on opposite sides. I like to watch as the shirt comes over her head and her hair gets caught up and reveals the nape of her neck. She knows this, she faces me, angry. “It’s just that you haven’t met my friends before “ she pauses, there is always a pause, a dot dot dot while she thinks of the most precise way to phrase it, or, when we’re fighting, the deepest surgical cut, “I sort of wanted you to look like my boyfriend and not a rental.” I always pause too; her idea of precise is encrypted. When guys go out for a beer and help a fellow lament some relationship gone south there is a general consensus that women are vindictively mysterious. To keep it shallow it comes out, often as not, as ‘Dames are screwy’ or ‘Bitches be tripping’. This is the sort of thing they mean.
“Honey, I don’t know how you compartmentalize your life,” I pause, giving her the opportunity to say she doesn’t, it’s a trap, she doesn’t take the bait. “So I did what I do; I made a good first impression. I listened to their jokes and laughed, I did bonding things, went with the flow of traffic, officer. I don’t know how much affection I’m supposed to show in front of your friends. I would have rather snuck a hand up your thigh and see how distracted I could make you; trying to keep a conversation and not wiggle.”
She hugged me, topless, her right breast damp against my cheek, her fingers curled into the hair at my collar.
“Bullshit” she said, but kindly.
I mumbled something into her cleavage, not a word but a conciliatory hum. She pushed me back on the bed; straddled me and pushing up from the biceps raised my arms over my head, held them there crossed at the wrist.
“When the attack comes, the bombs, the gas, whatever, who will you take?” she asks.
It’s hard to look in her eyes as her breasts dangle just above my chest and I’m trying to arch upwards.
“Hmmm?” I say. I’m tumescent and trying to push against her, too much clothing in the way.
“Everybody is clogging the freeways, the rails are blown, the airports shut down, everybody needs to abandon their homes and country, who do you take?”
“Um, you baby, I’ll take you. “
“You’ll slow me down.”
I wait. She kiss’s me, it’s not a kiss of acquiescence, it’s a white lie of a kiss “I’ll take you, but pretend we’re meeting in, say, Toronto. Who do you take?”
“I don’t know. Are you saying I met the people you’d take tonight?”
She lets go of my wrists and sits up, pushes her hair from her forehead. I let out a soft moan, her weight falling back on my end-of-the-world hard on.
“No. Just the opposite. How about you treat me the way you want and to hell with everybody else. How about you treat me like it’s the end of the world, hmmm?”
And though the images of the burnt and the dying clouded her liturgy of ‘oh, fuck me, yes, there, fuck me’ the cadence of end of the world rhythm, the passion of the apocalypse, rolled through the night like a freight train of war heads.
Prompt;
Write a flash comprised solely of dialogue.
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