She and I were to watch mad max (the new one) and drink wine. She showed up with some wine and a DVD. I have no DVD player. I made it work out. We made other things out.
But first we had dinner, and we had wine.
My TV is in my bedroom. We'd slept in the same bed before, and we're comfortable around one another. But I called it out: Make your own comfort assessment. That's fine, she said.
"The event - you called it guns, wine, and electromagnetism. Why electromagnetism?"
"Um - the television. Photons." Magnetic personality.
She's used to beds. We know this part. But we don't say it.
I'm less so. Not both of us fully know this. But we don't say it.
We talked at one point about a bunch of things - drunk makes me snuggly, I said (if it's not making me sick, because I fucked up). Yeah - and it makes me horny when I have more, she said. Fun parties, you see.
Soon we start drinking and eating and watching this movie. We talk for some hours before we play it, and pause it sometimes, and we talk more. We talk a lot of the time. Words come easy around her. Liquid courage, liquid tongues, expert tongues.
"My hair is so fuzzy!"
A request for permission, quickly granted. Contact. Calmness.
We're close, and closer. She started moving near me first; the conservative choice (the Republican choice, I said, later) was to assume she was slowly falling - closer in an absolute sense, but not for that purpose. But we are close. And I lay down - slide down from being seated. Conveniently placed pillows semi-separate us, but not entirely.
Later, I run my hands through her hair. Purring. Calmness.
But we share many words. And there's only so much room on a bed.
"Uh, just so you know- you might want to stop- my neck is really sensitive."
Restful. A pause. A retreat. We look at one another.
The edge of my hair. Where scalp meets neck.
"Is that a problem?"
Where it's not just warm.
"Well, no- but- you should be aware."
We watch the film.
When she first met me, she admired how I looked without a shirt, she told me. Ah, the aesthetics of the human body: Beauty in all people. We all thought each other looked lovely.
It didn't occur to me that each other person had slept with each other previously; us two were the only missing link. The invisibility of signs when presented to the socially blind. No context. I could guess, a shot in the dark. But how would one be comfortable? The fear of insult, injury by that blindly fired bullet.
We get cuddly when drunk. I get my stuffed bear, Theodore. (Teddy, you see - "He looks like a Theodore.") I noticed her petting my stuffed seal (Tiffany, but she's no story - "They?" "Nope, she.") for some half an hour. I was curious about this, too, but one can form a constellation out of any arbitrary points: There are false signals; also, there are signals not meant for me.
"You can come closer if you want."
Some signals were not meant for me. Not that there was anyone else around.
We talked before about how a certain person - one she was dating - was hard to read. You see it in their eyes, she said, but not anywhere else. You know they have a thought - it flashes through their brain, and lights up their eyes like a fire lights up Californian forest.
"Is this OK?"
Slowly down. To that edge.
I processed a thought in the silence between scenes, stuffed bear held close. She called me out on it. I shared it. Memory cuts out; televised cars shifting gears. Lost like the green place.
We talk a lot. Smile a lot. I mention I'm looking for a Halloween costume, and people keep telling me, I should do Furiosa. She says, you have the hair for it. Yeah, that's probably why, I know. But she likes Furiosa.
A gasp. Loud.
"You doing OK?"
Legs against her. Talking.
"Y- it's- I like it-"
No wine for so long. Still so warm.
"OK. Like this?"
Fingertip. Tracing. Fingernail. So w-
no not warm everythingallatoncenow
I have a shut-down switch, I mentioned later on. A secret place. She shared her secret place too. Someone found mine one day.
Fingertips. Up, down, across. The same side. Whispered breathing.
Not sure where she is. Squirming- writhing.
How easy to be set off, like a bomb not meant for a professional demolition.
Not fingers. Wet. Tiny trail. Growing. Moving.
Weak. Weaker. Disoriented.
Every moment I'm less coherent. Falling apart, like eight shots of whiskey:
This is the liquor of the gods.
I was talking about finance, like I usually am. Explaining the difference between Roth and Traditional, I assume. Like an old white man with grubby fingers and a distaste for the proletariat. They come up to me, like they appreciate me - they touch me a lot; often, I mean - their finger across my face - I smile - move under my ear, gesture--
A brushing - I turn -
--now there's no real world: I can see it, but I can't process it all. I hear them talking about me - I know what they're saying, but I can't say anything. Nothing's broken, nothing's happening, calm down. It was nice, but it shouldn't break you. What's your problem, Rain? Breathe.
Rolling on top of me. Pulling my wrists up. Pinning my hands down.
The weight of the world on my arms. Light, gentle, not forceful enough.
Close to my face.
"How- are you?"
What did she say? Um. Move on. What can I say?
"Enjoying the weather?"
This time she'll laugh. I'll play off it.
"How… about that local sports team?"
Arching back. Grasping - at hers. Twin spines kept apart by flesh.
They seek each other.
"Breathing is nice."
Pause. Crystal: realisation. Gasping. Oh. That's been a while, hasn't it.
"Oh my God, I haven't gotten to bite in so long. Not hard."
I learned her secret just before she had to leave. No work clothes available. Pesky Sundays.
"I want to learn about your body. But… you have to leave."