Her eyes are grey as she glances up, her head back, her throat hard. They roll up, showing whites, as she wiggles and writhes and moans.

I reach up to touch her breasts, her flat belly, her hard ribs. God she is so thin that I ache and fear for her. I can choke her waist with my hands and her hips are like hard plates. I do not like this. It is not attractive. I wish she would eat. I say so. (Not now. Not while we’re fucking. I am careening too close to the edge. I wouldn’t want her to stop. Oh, and she would! She’d be so angry she’d stop, swinging her legs aside and rolling off so her pink feet thump on the floor and my hard, lubricated cock collapses onto my belly. She’d be angry and we’d argue, and I wouldn’t see her again for three or four days.)

Yeah, I told her she should eat, and she was angry and screaming and so strung out she threw things, smacking my typewriter with the heels of her skinny hands, scattering my manuscripts. Then she cried, clutching my chest, blubbering incoherently, and I held her and loved her harder, and wanted to heal her.

Her arms come down and she leans over, laying her hands on my chest. I gaze up into her tiny face. Her black hair hangs down. It is warm and sweaty and smells like coconut and avocadoes. Her lids open, and her eyes are green again, gazing down at me. Her lips tighten, stretching up at the corners, rippling and exploding as a long moan accidentally escapes, spraying my face with warm spittle. Her belly tightens and contracts as a climax rips through her weary body, tingling up through her trunk to her heart. Her hot cunt clasps at my cock. Her eyes close, then open, and she’s biting her bottom lip, thrusting her hand to her twat, her long fingers clenching at her coarse hairs.

The climax is too intense and she doesn’t move for a full minute. She breaths hard and her hands tremble. She opens her eyes and they’ve faded from blue to black. She grins and there is perspiration on her upper lip. Wisps of black hair attach to her cheeks.

Her fluids are leaking out over my cock, lubricating my balls and my brown hair. She starts to move again and I strain up, trying to kiss her. She shoves me back down, writhing her hips, fucking me emphatically until I am overcome, until I scream, and semen explodes from my balls.

Her fingertips tremble on my chest, moving in small circles, teasing me.

So it’s all over, and there is a sudden urge to speak, to communicate with this strange, strung-out woman. To reflect. To hear her voice, or the sound of her laughter, or admire the movements of her throat, or the way she tips her head and her hair flows back, and behind her ear, sometimes sagging gently over one eye.

And then she is up on her elbow, her cheeks fiery red from orgasm, watching me with her ever-changing eyes, her small breasts squished against my ribs, the nipples thrusting against my flesh like little bullets.

I glance up, and the window is open, the curtains billowing out and snapping like an erotic flag—the emblem of all lovers. The breeze is warm and smells like flowers and dung and automobile exhaust, and it’s all very pleasant. I never want to move from this place, from her warm flesh, from the wet sheet sticking to my skin. But then, nobody ever does. This is probably as close as anyone will ever come to heaven, and it’s always too short.

But it’s all over and she is moving, rolling over and up and into the small bathroom attached to the bedroom. I turn my head and see her there in the doorway as she cleans herself up with a white towel, bent over and reaching with distracted eyes and a strange disgusted look.

Yes, just like that it’s over, and I wish I could think of something to say, something to make her smile, or something to make her sad, or something to make her actually love me … Or just something to make her stay.

But no words suggest themselves, no sound escapes my chest, or moves my throat, or spreads my lips. But I get up anyway, my cock flopping lazily, slapping a final surge of semen onto my thigh and I brush it off with my palm, and in the bathroom I stand behind her as she looks at her reflection in the mirror, at the dark circles under her eyes, at her cheeks that are sunken, at her throat and chest that are too thin. I touch her shoulders, cupping them gently, and kiss her neck, that warm spot behind her ear, can smell the shampoo in her hair, and the perfume upon her skin.

I clear my throat to say something, and she waits, our eyes meeting in the mirror, but nothing comes out. Nothing ever comes out, and she smiles, and it’s a sad smile, and she turns away and walks out of the bathroom, into the bedroom and pulls her panties on, her black bra, her tight dress, and I am in the doorway, watching her, and she’s aware of me and her movements are self-conscious. She glances up again, and smiles tentatively, and I return it, and her smile widens, becomes warm.

“So, will I see you again next week?” She asks, and I nod and she sits down to pull on her socks, and her long black boots.

“Listen,” I say, coming into the room, standing beside her. “Maybe we could go out this evening. Get something to eat. Have a few cocktails. Get to know each other, you know?”

She doesn’t even look up. The boots are on and she’s getting up, going into the front room, picking her purse up off the desk. She stops at the door, opening it a little. I am in the bedroom doorway, watching her, always watching her, never as close or as comfortable as I’d like to be.

She turns back. “I gotta go back to work.” A long pause, and she’s looking at the floor, and her eyes are almost brown, reflective, somehow very sad. “You’re not falling for me, are you?”

I don’t answer right away. But only because I don’t know what to say. Is this a trick question? Are there any wrong answers? Are they all wrong answers?

Finally, I say, “Would it make any difference if I was?”

She stiffens, and her eyes flash black, as dark and glossy as obsidian, and then it’s gone, and they’re brown again, somehow sad again, and I think I hurt her, and it makes me tingle all over. You can only hurt those who care for you. I think. I hope. Oh, I wish it were true.

“It might complicate things.” She answers after another long, reflective moment.

“For who? You or me?”

“For us.”

“Would you stop seeing me?”

“Professionally, maybe.”

“Let’s go out,” I say again, almost desperately. I lunge toward her and she shuts the door gently and stops me with both hands on my bare chest.

“No, I gotta go to work … I need the money.”

“I’ll buy your time. I’ll take you out. I’ve got money. Enough, anyway.”

She shakes her head. “No.” A pause, and we’re looking into each other’s eyes, and it’s a deep and eloquent moment, and she’s thinking about it. I can see she’s thinking about it, and the promise of something more makes her eyes green again, green again with hope. And then the green fades again to grey, and the grey becomes brown, and she’s shaking her head. “No. No. maybe it’s better if we’re not together tonight. Maybe it’d better if we’re not together ever. But … but I think I’m a little bit in love with you too and I want …” she breaks off hugging me savagely, almost breaking my ribs and weeping and her hot tears streak down my chest, and she’s stepping back, looking up. “Kiss me. I gotta go, but please kiss me.”

I kiss her, hard, and she’s turning, opening the door just enough to slither out, and slamming it shut as I reach for the brass knob. The windows rattle in their frames. My bird flutters and chirps alarmingly. I see her shadow in my blinds, hear her footsteps on the balcony, those heavy heels going down the stairs, climbing into her car. The engine turns over, coughs, sputters and I have just enough time to wish it won’t start before she stomps on the gas, gunning the engine, and I am alone, my toes curled into the carpet, semen still oozing from my spent cock.

She will come back, I think, but I know better. I go into the kitchen and retrieve the whiskey from on top of my fridge and open it, pouring a hefty shot—the dark liquor gurgling into the glass. I drink it down.

Yeah, she’ll be back.

But I know it’s a lie.

I sit down in the dark, naked, looking over at my bird, then the door. I reach for the remote and turn on the tv.

© 2002 James A. Danner. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.