by Janet Walker
***
He turned out the lights and made her sit in the soft chair positioned before the wall. The wall was blank and the house was hot. She knew what it meant when he shut off the fans and let things get hot. Behind the chair where she sat was a table on which rested a reel movie projector. The little girl began to whimper, for she knew what watching the movies meant. She knew he would start the projector and walk around to the chair and place her on his lap. Knew he would force her to sit with him and feel his hot belly against her back and the stream of air from his nostrils, warming the back of her neck—but the warmth made her cold. And she knew that as he watched the naked white people doing nasty things on the wall, he would start rubbing her body and moving his thighs. And then he would grab her around the waist and press her down against his lap, and he would make her bottom slide against his hard thing, and she would cry, and he would not care. And she knew that eventually the breath from his nostrils would become rivets of hot air that smelled like heated fruit—the clear brown liquid he drank that made him drunk; and like burnt tea leaves—the skinny brown cigarettes he smoked; and like old Christmas candy cane—the peppermint gum he liked to chew; and like dead and bloated animals—his tongue. And she knew that he would lick her face and kiss her in the mouth with his tongue, which was coated and slick, and that she would cry, and that he would not care. And so now, as he made his way around the chair, she pressed her thighs together and squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her fists and began to weep. But she knew he would not care.
