Page 10 of Fruit
I want to paint her in acrylics, thick and gorgeous and pained. Her set ends with cheers and applause, and the DJ that comes after takes us away with low, smooth beats.
I find her in the crowd. Her eyes are dark and filled with light, and I slide in front of her with a smile. It’s always a gamble, seeing if girls are receptive to this type of approach, but she matches the sway of my hips easily. My smile grows.
We let the tide take us. She steps close to me, and her skin is smooth and dark where it peeks from the cut-outs in her dress. When she kisses me, it’s all lush heat that feels like music. I wonder if I feel like paint.
She takes me to hers. I straddle her on the bed and kiss her deeply, slowly, my hands moving under her to unzip her dress. The zipper runs down her back. When I pull away, the dress opens behind her like beetle wings readying for flight.
Her neck smells like perfume, her breasts like shea butter. Between her legs, wet and waiting, I lick her slowly and love the way her thighs part, making room for me.
Her voice when she says my name is as beautiful as her song.
She makes me come with her fingers and her lips and I forget everything for a few seconds, letting the world just rush through me.
We press together, breath and sweat, until our bodies calm and let space grow organically between us.
I walk home alone in the dark. My head clears, filled with the silence that lives in the night.
I close the door of my apartment behind me and walk straight to my canvas. It’s as blank as always. I stand in front of it, the taste of her still in my mouth, but no images come forth. Not even her beauty or her smile or the way she sounded underneath me.
I feel restless, suddenly. I want to run, or to stand very still and listen, or to be able to find that feeling again.
But there’s just nothing there.
