by Sasha Pearl
Then, exactly 60 minutes from the time Ginger walked in, a knock on door from her driver signaled the party was over. She pulled herself off his dick (I imagine it went POP), wiped herself off, and without kissing Lisa, without even a real goodbye, off she went.
Jessy passed the smoking blunt to Jenny, shaking her head. Eating pussy is nasty, she said, and Jenny nodding in agreement. It’s all sticky and …. Ewww.
I didn’t nod in agreement; neither did Lisa, we just looked at each other through the the veil of smoke that held our group together and giggled.
Do you have more of this stuff? I whispered and she said yes and I said lets sneak out later, just the two of us, after the group shower, or after short-skirt yoga, bring a blanket and our dildos…
She leaned against me, whispering back that she brought three dildos, and a vibrator but it plugged in. No problem I said. Either one a strap on? Or a doubled sidied
She raised her eyebrows in mock shock, tossed her head back then fell on the bed laughing. I stroked her hair, she pushed her thighs against mine and their we lay, talking about war, about politics, about physics and equations and the meaning of life.
Meanwhile, a few feet away, oblivious to it all, the two twinkies kept smoking and smoking until the blunt that was enough for ten people became a wet tiny roach. They sat quiet and lost in jeans and ponytails, far beyond high and well into stoned, where they would stay for the rest of the day, thirsty and confused.
Day #25: Stories, Falling
They followed us out there, the two of them, quietly but not secretly, so we didn’t camp out on a blanket and we didn’t have the afternoon we’d planned.
Instead, we joined the group by the lake that was sketching and painting and writing, standing up and peering and talking then sitting again.
That’s when Jesse blurted it out, then everyone turned, and the silent circle grew as she talked and talked and we nodded and she talked and kept talking until all the women were there, some standing, some sitting, no one interrupting.
It was an explosion, she said.
Sudden, she imagined, though maybe there were other ones, warning ones, close ones. She’d hoped there weren’t, that he had no warning; maybe he was smoking, staring at the clouds, thinking of her. Maybe.
Jesse didn’t break a rule by telling us why she was here, you know; we are all here with stories to tell, but the guidelines say once a resident tells their story, one they share why they are here, they have to leave.
It was dusk by then, and the silent circle of listeners stirred with hunger, thirst, but no one moved. Jenny stood up and told her story; it was shorter. She knew less details, or maybe she’d imagined less, or maybe she was only repeating what she’d been told, memorized and folded and refolded like a piece of paper.
I’m tired from hearing those stories, like heavy pieces landed on my heart, pushing it down, pinning me with a gravity I normally deny.
Lisa and I stood with them as they zipped up their suitcases, turned and left us alone in Freedom, neither of us particularly free.
I told myself a long time ago that if I ever write the story of why I am here, it will be the last thing I ever write.
The idea of sitting silently after that, like a child standing watching a balloon fly farther farther drifting away until it belongs back to the sky, is deterrent enough, and I fold and crease and tuck my story into myself.
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Carman Fan Club
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The author loves to write stories.
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