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what if, wendyI don’t know how to be good anymore, he says. I can’t find anyone, he says. She doesn't know why while listening, she wants her hair pulled by him.
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I don’t know how to be good anymore, he says. I can’t find anyone, he says. She doesn't know why while listening, she wants her hair pulled by him.
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what if, wendy | richiem4.blogspot.com Reviews
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I don’t know how to be good anymore, he says. I can’t find anyone, he says. She doesn't know why while listening, she wants her hair pulled by him.
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what if, wendy
The same song plays again,. And she makes a decision. Allows the boy to have his fantasy at least once for his sake and she hands Jesse another drink. She asks, so what happened to her? What was her name? He’s wilting like blown feathers. Did you ever go looking for her, she asks? Yeah Once. He says. I came back to the city. But I couldn’t even remember what her face looked like.
what if, wendy
She takes his hand and places her own inside, like a proper slow dance on his chest, but his other hand creeps sweetly along her back, in a way that she has forgotten how it could feel, like a natural warm movement of red and white blood cells, parting in pangs and hormones asunder. Glow and blow. Jesse holds her. Do you know this song? You look like someone I already know or someone I should know. And his hair is a mess. His face unshaven. She says, what if, I’m Wendy? Jesse wants to ask her.
what if, wendy
All these people drinking lover’s spit. Sings from the small alarm clock radio, baby speakers on a low volume, on the drawer between the beds, like it’s the last song of the evening’s broadcast, and she doesn’t say much. She doesn’t really move much either. She lets him talk and monologue from the bed laying down. Jesse begins swaying the ice clinking inside his drink inside his glass and he feels better.
what if, wendy
She can see her knees, in a mirror from an open, cheap armoire at the end of the room, her least favorite body part on her whole body she thinks. Manish she thinks. She hides her boredom and she drinks her drink and Jesse speaks. Just like honey she thinks.
what if, wendy
I don’t know how to be good anymore, he says. I can’t find anyone, he says. She doesn't know why while listening, she wants her hair pulled by him.
what if, wendy
And waits there for me. She fucking waits there for me and I am thirteen. Do you want to walk with me? You can have credit if you want when we talk about it to other people, she said and we were fucking thirteen. Who the fuck was this girl? Where did she come from? She was so intimate to me and so quickly, she felt like a time traveler or something or like my protector. My secret, beautiful protector and sometimes we ditched class together you know? And find a place.
what if, wendy
Around the same time my mother was having an affair, Jesse says, taking a sip from his whiskey without making a face or a grimace as if he’s drinking ice water and he says, and she was not discreet. I’ll drink to that, Jesse says, almost as if in a different voice. Someone happier. She drinks too and she knows her velocity softly and slowly and never breaking the sound barrier. Her whiskey is quiet.
what if, wendy
Have you ever done anal? Yes she says, sipping the drink he hands to her, unfazed by his question. I love anal. It feels like, like a more, powerful lucid dream because of the added and soft pain. She pauses and says, masochism is still pleasure, pleasure, pleasure, and takes another large sip from her glass and almost hiccups smiling. I like admitting it too. Another pause occurs and their ears pop clean air and she asks, why do you ask? Taking me out, like. We have that option. Baby boy.
what if, wendy
what if, wendy
