Runaway Parade
CONTRIBUTE
     
   

The Woman and The Man

AMANDA MILLER

October 16, 2012

The woman’s back was to the man. She was sobbing, her shoulders heaving. In her right hand, she held a rose, deep red. The man had given it to her a few moments before, when he first told her he loved her. They stood in his bedroom, dark but for the lone candle on his nightstand and city lights pouring through his open window. He placed his hand softly on her right shoulder. The purple silk strap of her dress slid down her tiny arm.

His hand was warm. Her tears kept coming.

“I’m sorry, I just can’t stop.”

He squeezed her shoulder. The rose fell to the floor.

She liked crying, liked its strong sensation, the feel of night air against her wet cheeks.

He ground his teeth hard, bit his tongue. He dug his fingers into her shoulder.

“Do you want me to make you stop?”

He squeezed her shoulder and felt the crackling of knotted muscle.

“No,” she said. She continued to resist the urge to turn around, staring at the candlelit shadows drifting across the wall in front of her.

He leaned over and cooed softly in her ear, “I love you. Do you want to make love?”

She nodded, then spun around and snapped back with, “Do you want to make art?”

He reached his hand down the back of her dress and, beginning to fumble with her bra hooks answered, “Why, yes. Yes, I do.”

“Isn’t love just a catalyst for art?” she asked, spinning around.

“Yes, love is among the highest catalysts for art, second only to death,” he said in his best mock-professor tone.

He grabbed her left breast, pulled her to him.

“Do you want me inside?” he asked.

She wrapped her arms around him.

“How deep do you want to go?” she asked, trailing her lips along his neck, bathing him in her hot breath.

“Deep.”

“Do you mind if I close my eyes?” she asked, licking his ear.

“Of course not,” he said, stepping back, reaching for her hand, pulling her to the bed: velvet blankets, silk sheets.

“Come closer,” she whispered, yanking his tie and pulling his chest to hers. She giggled, twirled a finger through his dark hair.

At last, his bra hook battle was complete. Sliding his hand up her spine and neck, he began to massage her head.

She yawned. “Maybe we should just go to sleep,” she said.

He was struggling to get her dress off. She wasn’t helping: dead weight.

“Strip for me, damnit.”

Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. She pushed his hand away from her head, stood and turned her back on him once again, resuming her quiet sobbing.

“No, I changed my mind. I want to sleep,” she said.

He got up on his knees.

“Please can you take your clothes off? I’ll be gentle.”

She covered her face with her hands.

“You don’t really love me, this will not be love,” she whimpered.

He went to her, put his arm around her.

“It’s just… you have such a beautiful body.”

She whipped around, the candlelight setting her teary blue eyes aglow.

“I really do want you,” she said, wiping her cheek.

He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her face to his. She felt his breath on her cheek. He moved in closer, pressed his body to hers.

He slid his tongue along her neck, all the way up to her ear.

“You are all that I’ve been waiting for. Thank God I finally found you,” he exclaimed, panting, yanking her toward the bed.

She pulled away, shaking.

“Are you going to hurt me?” she asked, curling her shoulders forward, clasping her hands below her chin.

“Don’t you want to fuck?” He sat down on the edge of the bed.

“I used to like to,” she said.

“Why not anymore?”

She looked down at her hands, still clasped.

“Do you think a drink will help?”

“It might.”

“What’ll it be?” he asked, smiling.

“I guess I’ll have a scotch, no rocks.”

“Are you sure that’s not too strong for you my lady, not too stiff?” he teased.

“How about two scotches, no rocks.”

He headed toward the door.

“Only if you promise not to cry anymore,” he said, pinching her cheek on the way.

When he got to the door, he paused a moment, then turned around to stare at her. He gazed first at her breasts moving up and down with her breath,then at her wide blue eyes, shimmering from the light and the tears.

“Fuck me,” he said desperately as he lunged toward her, touching the center of her chest, spreading his fingers wide.

“Can I have my drinks first?”

“No, let’s just do it. You can drink after.”

He was ripping off her dress, pushing her toward the bed. She resisted.

“But… I don’t know if—“

“I love you, I love you,” he said, groping her chest, kissing her mouth. “Let’s make love, let’s—“

He shoved his tongue in her mouth. She bit it hard.

He hurled his hand against her cheek.

Tears fell from her eyes in sheets.

“Why did you—?”

Another smack.

She went down to the floor. He hovered over her. The room was dark, silent except for the heavy breathing.

He knelt down, ripped off his pants, then her panties and pressed himself into her. She held her breath. He held his. The silence was still and somber: like a graveyard.

He stroked her hair as he started thrusting. She was frigid, unmoving.

She closed her eyes.

“Yeah it feels good, doesn’t it? I love you, I love you.”

It did feel good. It felt good and bad and she wanted a scotch and she was crazy wet and she wanted him to keep thrusting and she wanted him off her and she wanted him to hit her again. But she couldn’t speak.

He came fast and pulled out.

She hugged him tightly. He hugged her back. They breathed together.

“I love you too,” she said, kissing his cheeks, his neck, his eyelids. “I really do.”

His eye caught the rose laying on the ground across the room. He went to it, plucked it from the floor and extended it to her.

“Thank you,” she said, smelling it, a single tear sliding into her open mouth.

“Well,” he said, his hand on her knee, “How about that scotch.”


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