“Nah, didn’t hear any of it.”
Later, Dillon leaves more meat out for the wolf.
Later than that, he runs into the woman from the grocery store again. He’s behind the bar helping his bartender.
“Hey, Mia. How are you?”
She leans into the bar, showing cleavage. “Can I get a shot of whiskey, Dillon?”
“Sure.” He feels heated. Dillon pours her one.
“Thanks, sweetie.”
She leaves lipstick on her glass. The bar gets busy. Dillon ends up in the kitchen helping his cooks. The waitresses dash between tables. Dillon moves between the kitchen and the bar. When he gets a chance, he walks the floor and thanks people for coming. He smiles at Mia when he sees her. At closing, she’s waiting for him.
“I told my friends to go on without me.”
Dillon breathes a sigh of relief. “Give me a couple minutes, okay?”
“Okay.” Mia walks toward the jukebox. She has a way of walking. Mia puts money into the machine and then Buffalo Springfield starts to sing, Something’s happening here…
Back in his office, Dillon cashes the waitresses out, tries not to hurry. One of the cooks teases him about getting lucky. He walks with Mia to his trailer. He keeps his hands in his pockets. Inside the trailer Dillon pushes a hand through his hair.
“How long has it been?” she says.
“I don’t know… What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
Dillon feels himself blush. “A while, I guess.” He shouldn’t have admitted that.
Mia grabs him by the back of his head and kisses him. On the couch, Dillon lies between her legs then pushes his mouth to her neck. She smells like perfume and whiskey. Dillon dry-humps her. He moves his hand inside her blouse then hears a thump against the front door. Another.
“What was that?” Mia goes still beneath him.
Dillon looks up, shakes his head. “Don’t know.”
Something paws at the screen door, tearing at it really.
“Jesus Christ!” Mia sits up beneath him. “What the hell is it?”
Dillon gets up. The noise stops. Dillon opens the door. Half the screen door is gone. Dillon pushes his hand through his hair, waits a second. Nothing there. He eases what’s left of the screen door open. Everything’s quiet. Mia comes up behind him.
“What’s going on?”
Dillon hears the growling, maybe from under the steps.
“Did you hear something?” Mia says.
Dillon puts his finger to his mouth. Mia looks at him. They both wait a minute.
“I’ll walk you to your car,” Dillon says.
“What?”
“It’ll be okay.”
Mia’s frightened but doesn’t want to leave. “Okay, let’s both go,” she says.
Dillon grabs her hand then pulls her across the lot between his trailer and the bar.
“Where you parked?” he says.
Mia points. She grabs hold of his arm. So close but so far away.
At her car, Dillon helps her in. Mia looks at him. “Aren’t you coming?”
Dillon leans in the window then kisses her on her lips. She tastes like something he’s had before: regret or reluctance…but that couldn’t be it. He has to get going. Mia grabs him by the back of his head, kisses him back. Dillon pulls away from the window.
“Drive safe, okay?”
He steps away from the car. Mia turns the ignition. Dillon heads across the parking lot and takes a big breath. Something moves, slipping into formation.
“Guess I’m headed to Home Depot tomorrow, huh? Nice job on the screen. You hungry?”
Dillon goes inside the trailer, screen door hanging on its hinges, then takes meat from the refrigerator, heats a pan, and then grills a piece of meat before tossing it to the wolf under his kitchen table.
She follows him as far as outside his bedroom door. One morning, when he’s in the shower, she goes into the bedroom and lies at the foot of his bed. When he comes into the bedroom with a towel around his waist, she smells the soap on him, his skin, the blood underneath; she can hear him breathing.
“Hey,” he says, and for the first time he crouches so he’s at her level.
He has dark blond hair on his legs. She smells the musk of his asshole, salt on his balls. Dillon holds his hand out. She stands and walks forward. He keeps his hand open, palm up. Dillon feels the wolf’s nose against his fingertips and then her fur in his hand.
He touches her head, behind her ears, her neck. She has blue eyes.
She watches him repair the door. “Christ,” he says, “You did a number on this thing, didn’t you?” Dillon shakes his head. “Nobody has heard of a wolf in these parts for fourteen years.” Dillon stops his work to look at her. “Want to tell me how you got here?” After a minute he says, “Fuck, like you’re going to answer.”
She follows him around the trailer, outside in the lot, but never into the bar. While Dillon works, the wolf runs with Segar through the woods. The wolf outruns the dog then finds the chickens and bites their necks, eats them. She kills and eats cats too, nothing wasted. From the dark she stares into lighted windows at children. She licks the dirt children leave behind them, the taste of the soles of their feet.
One night, Dillon gets drunk at the bar. He’s in a bad mood: maybe because he can’t find Mia’s number. Okay, so what if he liked her? Dillon drinks one more whiskey. Later, he makes it through the door to his trailer. The wolf follows him into his bedroom. Without looking at her, Dillon throws off his clothes and then falls onto the bed.
After a minute, he feels the weight of the wolf beside him.
“Ah, what?” Dillon drops his hand onto the wolf’s back and then pushes his fingers through her fur, feels for her spine, presses the edges. He passes out.
Segar wakes him whining. Dillon tries to ignore the noise then manages to open one eye then another. “Shit,” he says. “Let yourself out.”
Dillon sits up. Beside him on the bed is a naked woman. Dillon is sure of it, except he isn’t sure if he’d brought home a woman. He has to think, had he brought a woman home? She has blonde hair, long to her waist. He can’t see her face.
Segar whines again then backs toward the door.
“All right, all right,” he says.
Dillon gets off the bed then goes to the backdoor to let the dog out. Segar takes off. Dillon remembers the wolf. No sign of her now. There’s a woman in his bed. He should get back there. Dillon returns to his bedroom; the woman’s still on the bed, the shape of her there. The woman sits up and looks at him. She’s beautiful, holy Christ. Dillon goes to the bed then lowers himself beside her. He looks at her, smells something on her, the trees outside, something. She leans in and kisses him on his mouth. Her saliva is hot; her tongue fills his mouth. Dillon grabs the back of her head. She pushes him onto his back and straddles him. His cock is hard. She maneuvers him into her. Dillon arches beneath her, spits a breath through his lips, comes. She climbs off him, pushes her nose into his armpit. Dillon lets his eyes slide shut.
It’s daylight. Dillon stands beside the bed; the woman is curled around his pillow, still sleeping. Probably he should figure this out or at least feel suspicious. Maybe he should tell her to leave. How could he want her to leave? You don’t look a gift horse in its mouth, do you? Dillon wipes his brow.
Outside the bedroom window, Segar barks. Dillon goes to feed the dog then sits on the steps and watches Segar tear into his kibble. The dog looks at him.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Dillon says.
He goes inside the house, makes coffee, starts bacon and eggs.
Dillon turns from the stove and there she is.
“Hi,” he says.
She crosses the kitchen, then she puts her arms around his neck and hugs him. Dillon feels her naked body through his jeans, against his bare chest. She kisses the line of his jaw, the tender part of his neck.
“Hey,” he says but doesn’t push her away.
He pulls her closer.
The woman kisses his mouth. Dillon opens it to her, how can he resist? She pulls at the front of his jeans. Dillon lifts her onto the kitchen counter, fucks her like that.
Later, she eats bacon and eggs with her bare hands.
“What’s your name?” Dillon says.
She has bacon grease smeared across her mouth; she doesn’t answer.
When he has to go to work later Dillon says, “Stay here,” because he’s afraid he’ll come home and she will have disappeared.
She doesn’t stay.
While Dillon is in the kitchen helping his cooks, she wanders into the bar.
A waitress happens to comment while she’s waiting for an order: “A girl in nothing but a shirt and cowboys boots has got the boys going at the pool table.”
Immediately, Dillon goes to investigate. There, by the pool table, she wears one of his flannel shirts, a pair of his boots. When she leans over the pool table, the shirt hikes up and reveals the bottom curve of her hip. Dillon rushes across the bar. She goes to him, boots slapping the floor, and hugs him.
Dillon takes hold, holds her close.
“Your girl, Curtis?” Ray backs up respectfully but still looks at her. How could he not? She was a bit barbaric, lupine-like even, but beautiful.
Dillon holds her face in his hands. “You okay?”
She kisses his mouth.
“Lucky bastard,” another guy says.
“You all right?” Dillon looks at her, can’t let go of her, stares in her eyes and sees the yellow rims around the blue of her irises.
She pulls her head from his hands.
“She sure can play pool,” Ray says.
Come here, Dillon wants to say. His hands ache. “What do you want to do?” Dillon imagines gathering her hair in his hands. He imagines she curls up on the rug in his office. He shudders once. She goes back to the pool table and picks up a cue stick.
After he closes the bar, they walk across the lot. Dillon squeezes her hand in his. She’s there, she’s real. In the trailer, she takes off his shirt, pulls his boots off. She kisses him all the way up the inside of his legs. She takes his balls in her mouth. She sucks him. Dillon shudders. He smells pine in her hair, earth. He sees a flash of white in the air, her teeth. She’s smiling at him before taking him into her mouth again. Before he can come, Dillon is on his knees between her legs as she lies on his bed. He kisses the inside of her knees, the inside of her thighs; he holds her legs with his hands. He pushes his face into the center of her, running his tongue over her cunt, pulling on her with his lips, pushing his tongue inside her. He wants to be the one to make her come.
She holds the sheet on each side of her and feels her legs tremble. She takes a breath, sinks into it. After she comes she sits up and looks at him.
“Hi, Dillon.”
He remembers the first time he saw three rainbows at once. He recalls the glow of colors and a raw taste of rain. He tastes her cunt on his tongue now, then hears her say his name. He mounts her as if to hurry: she’ll slip through his arms, the trees, disappear.
“Don’t leave me,” he says.
She nuzzles his neck, bites him. He comes before he’s aware of the pain.
THE KISS
Michelle Augello-Page
And they lived happily after. That was the first lie she learned, long, long ago, when she was a child of light, a dream living in a sun-drenched room, waiting for the one who would come and rescue her from a world that offered no more fairy tales.
He had met her in a dark club, past midnight, as the moon hid behind nocturnal clouds. He wouldn’t have remembered the sky, but she had told him that she only went out dancing when the moon stirred within her. They danced by each other, and he was captivated by her ruthlessness, the way the hard music entered her body and was released in movement. He did not touch her. Later, outside, she approached him and kissed his lips, her mouth stained with Southern Comfort and cigarette smoke.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“If I told you that, you would never believe me.”
“Then lie,” she said, shading her eyes from the stars.
“My tale has become tainted with the blackness of the earth, the darkness of the sky. I have no body; I take what is not mine in the dreams of night, the nightmares of loss at the edges of what should never be.” He looked at her plainly, his eyes reflecting nothing. “I’m sorry, you told me to lie.”
“And yet, I believe you.”
They laughed. He remembered her laugh, light and airy; belying the weight he sensed surrounding her as an aura.
He looked in the mirror; her eyes were lined with black, her lashes brushed with midnight. Her hair fell around her shoulders as if they were being licked by fire. He surveyed her body: her breasts were soft, her arms thin, her thighs full. He ran his hands along the line of her abdomen, feeling the round of her belly, the hard places of bone. He liked this body, though it was not flawless. He would become intimate with each of its scars, purposeful and accidental, lines of cuts, childhood stitches, designs colored with black ink. The time had come to travel again.
“Take me home.” She did not ask. He would later remind himself; it was what she had wanted.
After mother died and father became lost in the eye of a fractured bottle, Danae ran away, far from the idyllic wood that held magic just within reach, the place where she grew from a child into a young woman, the place of secret passages and locked doors. She ran as far as the wind swept her, into the city, and found the world she suspected existed on the other side, framed by long and jagged shadows.
He smiled and brushed strands of hair from her eyes.
“What’s your name?” he whispered.
“Danae.”
“Pretty name,” he said. “And were you locked in a brazen tower by your father after a prophecy foretold?”
“Ah, you know mythology, but did you ever see some of the paintings?”
“I only know the one by Klimt.” He looked at her again, reconciling her image to the sudden recollection of the painting, seeing the echo of the sensual turn of her mouth, the casual sexuality of her captured glance.
“Of course,” she said, sensing his growing awareness, “it’s not my true name.”
“Neither is mine.”
“But you haven’t told me yours yet,” she laughed.
“Give me a name,” he said.
She looked at him, head titled, surveying the minutiae of his features. She stepped back and then took the length of his body in her glance. Through his black silk shirt his arms gave the appearance of being finely chiseled. For a second she felt as if his eyes did not match his body. His eyes…they were so deep they seemed ancient, in contrast with the accidental youth and beauty of his form.
“Your eyes are shocking.”
“Oh?” He shifted, and veiled the expression on his face so quickly that she did not catch his unease at her statement.
“This is difficult.” Danae laughed, and then grew serious, looking at him intently as he focused his eyes on the cracked asphalt outside the club, looking over the stained tar, spilled beer and crushed cigarettes littering the pavement.
“I suppose it has to be Gustav. Or Klimt, if you engender such formality.”
“How about Zeus?”
“What ego,” she countered, playfully hitting his arm.
“If you insist,” he answered, “though I confess I lack both genius and creativity, and I am not a painter.”
“That’s okay,” she smiled, “I am.” Her smile fell briefly as she corrected herself. “Or I was.”
“What do you paint?” he asked.
“Hmm,” she began, “what can’t be verbalized even if I wanted to use words to describe its meaning, what is unknowable, the space between thought and action, shades of gray, negative prisms, shadows…but I…I can’t…I’ve lost whatever impulse I once had. It is as though I have been blinded. It’s as if whatever once tethered me to the universe has been cu
t, and I have no sense of gravity. I no longer walk this life. I float.”
Her dreams were sketches in charcoal, and her days were spent, wasted. As a child, her entire life was molded upon one quest: to be beautiful and kind, to await patiently her prince. The girl who once shone in the sun found her only solace in dreams, waiting, listening, refusing to believe the empty footsteps of her nightmares. She told her story in image and color. But Danae was not patient. When it became clear that no one would rescue her, she flung herself into the world. She learned how to find men who would never be princes, and she would stay with them as long as she could, until the next fix, until the next black and blue, until she could no longer.
“And what do you do?” she asked.
He wavered. He felt too close. He enjoyed talking to this woman; perhaps he would enjoy courting her, spending time with her. Perhaps, he thought bitterly, he could if he did not bear his fate. She was looking at him curiously, waiting for a clever answer, one that would continue their flirtation. His resistance was shallow and dissipated under her expectant smile. He wanted her. Damn him, he cursed himself, how he wanted her.
“I do,” he answered, turning and smiling at her, “everything.”
“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear,” she laughed.
Her laugh was a tinkling of bells, the distant knell of a cathedral, and again he was grasped with the feeling of not wanting to take her; he would rather confess to her in the dim light of a screened window, hide her in a cloistered place where everything was pure, where she would never be hurt again.
She used her body as a negligible thing, arms and legs and neck poised askew, standing on a shifting precipice, waiting, wanting desperately to fall. This life had betrayed her; it was nothing she had ever imagined when she looked at the stars, unaware of the immensity of the surrounding blackness. But he was hungry; he had outgrown the body of the vacant boy, that man-child who came to him when he was the raven-haired mistress, and before that the androgynous blonde. His thoughts faltered and his mind began to spiral, the wheel of his archaic soul beginning to turn. What would release him, who would allow his own return, where was his chance to begin again, anew?
Fairy Tale Lust Page 15
