by Kilby Blades
Her body is divine, and I can't wait to see her wearing nothing except my body draped over hers. But it's her gapped tooth smile that hooks me beneath my stomach and makes me fall.
We dance, first to fast-moving Latin rhythms, then to slower, sadder songs. She trips over the steps at first but quickly catches on as I teach her. We go for an hour before the man at the stereo switches it up and plays Somebody to Love by Queen.
She looks up at me, her eyes bright and her cheeks feverish from the hot and sweaty little room. "This is my favorite song. I love Queen."
"It is an interesting choice for somebody who doesn't believe in love."
She shrugs, resting her head on my shoulder. "I can't deny good music when I hear it."
"What of my music?"
That stirs her, her eyes full of mischief as they find mine.
"I love your music. When I first heard you play, I wanted to hate you and your music, but those fast fingers of yours won me over pretty quickly."
"But not me." She rubs my shoulder as our bodies refuse to separate.
"I'm still undecided about you."
I kiss her, wanting to take any indecision away.
"I love your art," I say as we separate. "And I would never do anything to keep you from making it. Comprendes?"
Instead of answering, she kisses me again, her hands skimming my ass and slipping into the back pockets of my jeans. It takes all my manly will power not to jump.
"Is there somewhere we can go?" she asks.
Knowing this could be it, could be the only time we're together with the last day of the festival tomorrow—Valentine's Day—I take her up to my tiny, one room apartment. There's nothing more than a mattress on the floor, a dresser with some clothes, a record player in the corner, and about ten boxes of records.
"Look at all this music," she says, amazed by the collection and not caring about the sad state of the room. "I've never heard of most of these artists."
"It's a lot of underground stuff, people who aren't given the time of day by record labels because they don't fit the mold of what's in. But I swear, I'm going to help musicians like these make music. One day."
"That's a beautiful dream."
"So is yours, and it doesn't have to be just one thing."
"Diego—"
"Let me show you."
We end up on the mattress, and I am more than glad I listened to my mamá's voice in my head and made my bed that morning.
We touch and kiss and go slow, my hands asking for permission before taking on a will of their own, palming her full breasts and gripping her hair. Then, they slowly slide down to the hot space between her legs. And, through it all, I talk—paint a picture for her to see and trust.
"During the day, we will find our jobs. You at a gallery, me at a music studio." I unhook the button on her jeans and lower the zipper. "When we come home, we'll cook and chat about our day." I tease the lace edges of her panties, wiggling my eyebrows as she giggles at the inferred memory of the panty peddler. "We'll keep some time to work on our projects, share our thoughts and struggles." I dip my fingers beneath the cotton, keeping my eyes on hers to know she's with me every step of the way. "Whenever I have a block, I will come to you. You will do the same. We will talk and share ideas." My fingers find the wet center of her sweet pussy, and she moans.
"Keep talking, don't stop," she pants, gripping my shoulders.
"This is really turning you on?"
"If you stop talking I will clock you."
Never disobey a hot and bothered woman.
I push my fingers inside, slowly gliding and driving past the clenching walls of her channel. She's stunning. Her head thrown back, her hands searching my body, roaming and stroking me until she finds the hard bulge of my erection.
"Oh, shit," I mumble as she unzips me.
"Didn't I tell you not to stop talking?"
"It's hard to speak when you're gripping my cock like a vice—yes, just like that."
"Keep going, or I stop."
"So, so cruel." Though, it's a much more pleasurable cruelty than the one we discussed after first meeting. So I give her what she wants.
I weave a tapestry. The two of us living together, making art and music, sharing our lives and our passions. I describe a particularly sexy night where our desire for one another can't be contained, and I take her right in her studio, bent over a table full of paints that splashes down her front. She laughs a little at the idea, but when my fingers find her clit and begin to rub, the laughter is stolen away.
"It's a perfect life," she groans against my lips, sliding her hand up and down my cock in sync to the rhythm of my fingers thrusting inside her pussy, taking me to the edge. "I want that life."
"And there can be more. So much more if you take a chance on me—"
"Ah, I'm coming," she cries. "Right there."
"Yes. Yes, me too. Dios."
It's a perfect moment, the hard grip of orgasm tunneling through my groin and stomach, leaving me speechless for a long time afterward. We doze, our scents and bodies mingling to create one seamless mass of passion and dazed love. This is the definition of love for me. Sharing a gasping breath and caring for one another, falling asleep in each other's arms.
In the morning, we dress, and she doesn't complain when we have to wait for the shared bathroom down the hall. We grab breakfast-to-go at the restaurant—some arepas and fruit—then drive to the fair. She's quiet, not telling me whether today will be it, or whether she's changed her mind. I should have said something last night, should have made it clearer I want to be with her. That I've fallen in love with her.
A few minutes before the opening, she asks if I can go buy us some coffee.
I want to tell her a million things, but my grasp on English evades me as she looks at me sweetly and openly. I nod, thinking there might only be one thing I can do to convince her of what she means to me.
Rosie
I'm in love. It's clear as the sign I've hastily drawn to replace the one I made earlier in the week. Being in bed with Diego, dancing with him, waking with him this morning, has made it abundantly clear how much he's come to mean to me. It's scary as hell, and my hands shake as I sketch, using all the colors in my palette. It's the last day of the fair—Valentine's Day—and crowds of couples are lining the sidewalk, waiting to come in.
But none of that matters. Only this moment. This piece of paper and the words I write.
It's possible to have a career, to have a goal and dreams and still find time for love and family. I never saw it as clearly as I do now because I needed the right partner to help me see. One who won't demand that I sacrifice myself for the sake of our domestic life.
He'd never ask that of me because it would be akin to asking him to set down his guitar and go find a so-called real job.
With these lines of work, we'll never be rich. We'll probably struggle more than not. But I don't care. As long as Diego is with me, shit, I can conquer the damn world. And I plan to.
Familiar notes find their way to my ears. A soulful, rock anthem I know well, one we danced to just last night, plucked and strummed on a simple yet perfect acoustic guitar. I think it will forever be the best sound in the world.
He's there, playing and singing my favorite song, and when he comes to the guitar break, starts to speak. And damn, it makes me kind of mad because he's stealing my moment.
"Rosie, I know you have a particular idea of what your life will be. So did I. Until I met you. Your paintings show me the true beauty of who you are, and your determination and spirit thrill me and inspire me—"
"Wait. No!" I stand, waving my hands at him.
"No?" He asks, confused. His hands faltering on the strings.
"No! Shuddup. This isn't fair."
"What? I am confused."
"You can't come over here, playing my favorite song in some grand romantic gesture."
"I can't? Do you want me to go?"
"No! I was going to make the grand roman
tic gesture. You totally stole my thunder."
"Oh!" His previously defeated expression lights up in comprehension and butterflies take flight in my belly. "I'm sorry, please dazzle me with your gesture."
"Well, now it's ruined. It's nowhere near romantic as yours."
"Please, mi amor, I want your gesture."
He steps back, waiting patiently while I huff at him.
"Here." I thrust the paper into his hands then cross my arms, tapping my foot as I wait for him to be suitably awed.
He reads the sign silently. For a long a time. Like, a really long time. Did I spell something wrong? Is it illegible? Is it not what he wants? It's only three lines.
After a while, my confidence dips.
"Um, I—"
"Please!" He holds up his hand, stopping me. "I am trying not to be unmanly and cry with joy."
Relief pours through me—so intense and ecstatic that I nearly crumple to the ground.
"Why would you think that's unmanly?"
"I've noticed you Americans are averse to men showing any kind of emotion. Be a man, and all the shit."
"Honey, I'm Italian. We're as passionate as a people can get."
"Oh good," he says wrapping me up in his arms, his eyes glistening. "Because I am going to cry when I tell you that I love you. And I want to make a life with you."
"I love you. I love you."
We kiss, and the folks in the surrounding booths and tents clap for us, join in on the love we've found. If someone had told me last week, I'd fall in love over a few days, leading up to Valentine's Day no less, I probably would have laughed in their face. But now it seems easy, like the most obvious thing in the world.
The fair starts and we sort of have to stop kissing. But it's okay, because we work our combined magic to bring in customers and gift them with a piece of our love whether it be through music or art.
But the real magic truly starts when we hang the new sign.
Diego Rodriguez and Roseanne Caputo
Musician and Artist
The Definition of Love is Us
“Heartbreak in High Gear” by Daphne Masque
Ripped out of her sleep by the horrid clang of the doorbell, Grace sat straight up and her stomach lurched. Groaning, she shook her head and wiped her face with her hands. Damn.
Grace normally didn’t take naps—didn’t have time. Between kids, jobs, and worrying about money, she couldn’t afford the luxury of an afternoon snooze. Today however, she had the extremely exciting task of folding laundry even though she desperately needed to close her eyes for just one smidge-of-a second. It must have happened somewhere between sorting socks and folding tee-shirts that her exhaustion won the battle. She had unexpectedly drifted off into glorious oblivion before being rudely interrupted by some idiot at the door.
“Damn,” she said, and staggered around the house for a moment. The doorbell rang again, louder, it seemed, this time. The stinging sound rattled through her brain, momentarily rendering her stupid. If the kids were home, they would have raced, at a break neck pace, to answer the door first. They had uncanny synchronicity and would have hit the door at the same time. Next, the obligatory argument about who got to pull the door open would have ensued.
But the kids, by the generosity of their neighbor, Charlotte, were spending the day and evening out of the house. Grace had two jobs, and three days a week there was barely an hour-and-a-half between the two. Charlotte offered to take the kids on Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays, which left Grace about forty minutes to grab a snack for dinner and clean up before starting her evening work at a local Craft Barn. That was her life these days. There was no getting around the responsibilities she struggled to carry. Spending forty hours a week as an office manager and three nights a week at Craft Barn, followed by one weekend shift, left her little time for anything else.
The doorbell blasted again. “Coming,” she called out so loudly that she startled herself.
“Shit,” she grumbled under her breath. “What the hell do you want anyway?”
Every Sunday, she and the kids had their discovery fun day. They would find something free for them to do in town, discover something new, and have fun, the priority being fun and laughter—lots and lots of laughter. It was simple and uncomplicated. She longed for Sundays.
The deafening ring of the door bell sounded again. It sliced through her brain, leaving little patience. As she stumbled toward the front door she could feel pieces of laundry, dishtowels and underwear sliding off one piece at-a-time, falling off of her shoulders and leaving a trail across the carpet.
Before she could get the door completely open, a young male voice barked, “Are you Grace Anderson?”
“Um, yeah.” She tried to focus on both the voice and the unfamiliar face.
“This is for you. It’s from the attorneys of Blacken & Theibald for Robert Anderson,” he said as quickly as possible. Then, he shoved the envelope toward her. Reacting instinctively, she took hold of it.
“Thanks and uh, happy Valentine’s Day,” he said cringing. He turned and walked off. Her stomach flopped. She watched him until he disappeared on the horizon. Assaulted by nausea, she swallowed the anger. She’d just been served.
Insult stacked upon insult, building a wall of despair. Today of all days. Resisting the urge to scream hollow threats at the young man, she looked at the official letter in her hand. She wasn’t sure which stung worse: the document and what it meant, or the reminder today was Valentine’s Day.
Having successfully pushed V-Day out of her mind until this moment, she was crushed by the memory. After striking it off the calendar and having resolved not to let the whole of notion of “happy ever afters” creep back into her thinking, she was once again reminded.
What new tricks will Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde be demanding today? Wasn’t it enough that he left for a younger woman, took the house, both cars, the all the available money?
She’d already been fooled by the promise of happy ever afters and, thank you very much, she’d rather not do it again. Pulling the sock off her shoulder, she moved toward the sofa, sat quietly, and, with a hardened heart, she stared at the envelope.
Sighing. Debating. Sighing again.
Can’t get worse than this.
She had two jobs, two kids, rent that was too high, a car that was running on empty and patience that had become threadbare. Holding her breath, she opened it. Even the crinkle of the envelope made her skin crawl. She really thought she was done with attorneys and the never-ending cost of the worst battle of her life.
The words looked like little ants crawling all over the page like some horror story.
Focus Grace, focus.
“This custody agreement…” She faltered. “…is made and entered into by and between Robert Anderson, the father…”
She cringed seeing her own name listed in bold print. Taking another deep breath she continued.
“…in consideration of the circumstances and mutual covenants…”
Mutual?
“You bastard, there is nothing mutual about this garbage!” she shouted to no one.
She started to pace the living room.
“He has no right to do this.” Almost shouting, she spat, “Wasn’t it enough to move our entire life savings to Caribbean accounts? Or forget the kids birthdays, holidays, and school plays every year?”
Knowing that her ex-husband was still out there hacking away at the divorce was more frustrating than she could manage. She took in one more deep breath and turned back to reading the subpoena aloud.
“The father shall have sole and exclusive custody of the children and all final decision-making authority related to significant matters impacting the welfare of the children, including but not limited to, matters of education, religion and health care.”
She stopped reading, and sucked in air, having forgotten to breathe. Grace stood for a moment in shock. He didn’t want to change his visitation rights—he wanted to move the kids to who-knows-whe
re.
Slightly shaking, she set the letter on the coffee table amidst the unfolded laundry. Lizzy and Jake were her reason for living—hidden treasures in her stormy life. Grace couldn’t, in a million years, let him or that ditzy-dirty blonde raise her kids. But she had no answers, no money, and, least of all, no attorney this time to fight the battle. Something had to change.
But time didn’t stop for heartaches. Her evening shift at work was nearing, and she really couldn’t lose this part time job, especially now. Bringing herself back to life, she changed clothes, freshened up, made a cup of hot instant coffee and grabbed a breakfast bar for dinner.
Pulling into the parking lot at work, she noticed a small classic Jaguar XJ6 sitting in the parking lot. The headlights were blazing into the distance and nobody was sitting in the driver’s seat.
Huh.
Curiosity got the better of her and she leaned close to peer inside the car, as a child would lean close to watch a baker icing a cake.
“What kind of a doof would leave on their headlights with a car like this? Must have too much money for his own good.” She fought back vicious thoughts of her ex-husband.
Taking in a deep breath, she headed for the front door of the store. Years before, she’d resolved not to bring her personal life to work and she wasn’t going to change her attitude now.
Bright lights nearly blinded her as she entered the store. Red and pink hearts hung from the ceiling like Christmas bulbs, bouquets of red and white roses were strategically set about the store, yet another reminder of her loveless life. Hell.
Pushing on and passing through the store to put away her purse, she spied a man standing at the ribbon racks wearing a tuxedo and looking way to dressed-up for the Craft Barn.
She heard her name being called from behind the register.
“Hey Grace, am I happy to see you. I need a little relief, if you get my meaning,” Rainbow called out.
“Or what’s going to happen?” Grace said passing the counter.
