Jake liked his women how he liked his kiwi fruit; firm yet yielding, sweet yet tart, and covered with short fuzzy brown hair.
“We had sex in a bathtub.”
She is biting off her hangnail, staring at her feet, giggling nervously and sniffling.
“Oh?”
She seems awkward, asexual, too bored for sex in a bathtub. Her hip-bones would touch either side of the porcelain. He would lay like a straight sardine. He: skinny and freckled with quick fingers and knobby knees. She: lumpy and unsure with the condom in her hand, a wet and alien skin.
“We really did. I’m not kidding.”
She whispers now, narrowing her eyes to tell this deathly secret, this I’m-not-kidding testament, this evidence of her womanhood — her silly breasts without a bra that don’t seem like breasts at all.
“I believe you.”
She blows her nose. It is loud and phlegmatic, and people shift in their seats.
“Except it wasn’t very good.”
She bites her hangnail again, and little blood beads bubble up where the skin is pink and new. She is at once hilarious and repulsive.
“Oh? Why not?”
She shifts her weight, struggling for the specific reason, for the secret words that she only knows by incognito asterisks and dollar signs. Her eyes are stunningly blue, nearly translucent, and they move in a watery side to side motion.
“The cat was watching.”
He, the silly too-eager sardine packed in tight on the bottom of the bathtub, and she, the serious dull-faced librarian’s daughter, in an uncomfortable poise on top. And the Siamese, perfectly positioned on the lid of the laundry hamper, yawning in between their excruciating thrusts — quietly laughing to himself.
Filed under: Blather on June 7th, 2007
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