Candied Apples and Pieces of Eight

Zap

12/04/2001

Actually I suck. This is a day late, and was written a while ago. But, I wrote it and I'm proud of my work, so here it is:

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Candied Apples and Pieces of Eight

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I follow her. Every night that she comes by. A bad song with a skip in it, wearing deeper and deeper into the groove, into the vinyl of the night. She walks by, blunting my toes with her heel; muttering a breathful of sorry. Sorry. Sorry for what? For breathing into my ear with a mouthful of sorry.

 

I recognize her. How can't I? She returns with a breath for me, of sorrys. She always walks by the same. Even, stiff steps carry her past me. Purposeful steps. Calculating where she places her feet, cunningly stepping over my foot with only the briefest contact. Alone. Late night on Fifth. I stand there, letting her pass before sliding into the deepened groove, endless replay of an old tune.

 

Every time. Like the first time. Funny, remembering the first time. Everyone remembers the first time. Revenge turned to habit. Only with her. She walks by with a wet scarf on her head. Silly conventions of dryness on a wet evening which found me, that proverbial first time, with my hands in my pockets. I can tell she was looking at me, though her head was lowered. And she scuffed my toes with her heels. A calculated tread of desire and fear written at a brisk, staccato beat resounding in its crispness reflected from the ground.

 

I followed her. Why? I don't know. Because I could. Because I wanted to, to speed the steady pace she had fallen into. To make her nervous. To see her run. I'm not sure, but I followed her. Not too close, but very obviously, echoing her steps lightly, tightly. She walked the two blocks at the same pace before speeding up, and I tried to keep pace. I passed several cars, glancing at them, daring opportunity to knock. Then she was gone. Suddenly, I noticed she wasn't in front of me, that I couldn't hear her footsteps. I stopped after I had sped past the alley. She was in there. No other place she could have disappeared to. I backtrack into the alley, and suddenly she is there.

 

I can't move as she studied me for a moment. Then she walked toward me. I noticed the silly scarf had disappeared, as well as her small, black purse. I don't move, silently daring her to come closer. She stood in front of me and pressed her palm onto my dick. I notice she was short, barely reaching past my chin with the top of her head.

 

She kept rubbing me through my old corduroy pants. One hand doing the work of two. She seemed mesmerized, her hand on autopilot as she kept rubbing me, teasing me with her closeness and her fingertips on my dick, pressing harder.

 

I can sense it build up, like a powerful orgasm, it took time, but I saw it build up. Her breathing sped up. Shallow breaths. Panting breaths. Then the laughter started. She took control of her hand, and it left my body, taking with it the source of my erection.

 

I spoke, "What is it?" I don't know why, I just did. Probably she didn't know why she rubbed me, but she just did, also. She kept laughing. Not forced. A gut laugh, the kind that makes your sides split if indulged in too much. She's sputtering. She can't breathe from all her laughing. Her chest heaved passionately.

 

She turned and swept up her purse from against the wall. I stood there, watching her spin away from me, with a mild erection and rooted to the ground. She choked on her laughter as she gets into a Corolla that was parked with the other cars; a beat-up white thing. She got in, still sputtering and choking, and drives away, leaving me to subside in the irony of the moment. Who had followed, had been followed. A two-bit slut. Quarter byte. Teasing me at her mercy. The first time the rift opened up, the vinyl of the night getting grooved by a scratch. A scene to be repeated on other nights. I follow her, but I now have no choice. The groove is worn too deeply, the record of our lives etched permanently into repeat.

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Copyright Michael Liu/Zaphod Productions 2/28/94

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Zap

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www.bloodyfist.net