Damage - A. M. Jenkins [17]
You’re driving along, not really seeing the road ahead of you, remembering all this. Your right hand is resting on the seat next to your thigh, and you’re vaguely aware of Heather touching the class ring on your finger, as if she’s looking at it, but you don’t really start to pay attention until she begins to stroke the back of your hand. It’s light touch, but slow and deliberate, and after a moment or two it begins to set off nerve endings that reach way beyond the area she’s touching.
You try to concentrate on watching the road. She slides her hand under yours, interlaces her fingers with yours, and lifts the whole thing to her lips. “No sadness allowed,” she says, very low, and you glance at her as she kisses the very tip of your index finger. It looks like she’s tasting a drop of honey. You hear a quick intake of breath.
It came from you.
A horn blares, the center line disappears under hood—your pickup is drifting into the oncoming lane. You jerk your hand away from Heather and swerve back again.
Both hands are on the steering wheel now. Your is going like a jackhammer, whether from having fingertip sucked or from almost being killed there’s no telling. You have to pull over into the next parking lot that comes along. You can’t think.
When you turn to ask Heather if she’s okay, she’s looking across the lot…at the sign that says Giacotti’s Pizza and Spaghetti.
“Why are you stopping way back here? There’s a spot right in front.”
No indication she realizes she just gave you a boner that could steer the truck all by itself.
Inside Giacotti’s, you order the pizza while Heatther selects a booth to sit in. You want to slide in to sit beside her—you’ve always thought people who did that w stupid, facing straight ahead, bumping shoulders and elbows. But tonight you think you’d like it, even as you take the seat across from her.
Heather calls some of her friends over; they stand gathered at the edge of the booth in the dim light, saying hi with big smiles, while Heather smiles even bigger. When they finally leave, Heather shakes back her hair and says: “We make a cute couple, don’t you think?”
Whatever that was, back in the truck, it’s over. Gone. Completely. When she looks at you her eyes are clear blue and completely blank.
“I always thought your hair was black, but really it’s dark brown, isn’t it? Anyway, we’re a good contrast,” she continues, as if she’s talking about a color wheel. She removes the wrapper from her straw. “Being as I’m blond and all. And the top of my head probably comes just about to your chin. Don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” you say, wondering what difference it makes. “I guess.”
“So we’re just about the perfect heights for everything. Pictures. Kissing. Sex.”
She says it matter-of-factly, like checking off a list. But it drives the breath from your lungs.
“Do you think I’ve got a nice body?” she asks, sliding her straw into the glass.
“Yes.” The word comes out a little hoarse.
“Thanks.” She sips her drink, and you watch the way her lips close around the straw, and the way her breasts almost rest on the table as she leans forward. You’re sure how you feel about all this talk about looks. You are sure how you feel when she talks about sex, right up front like that. How you felt when she sucked on your finger.
Lighten up. Be joyful always.
God sure does work in mysterious ways.
After the movie you figure you’ll drive down by the railroad tracks. They’re easy to get to; down an unmarked farm road leading off the main highway.
But the moment you hit the blinker to turn right, Heather sits straight up, like she’s been shot. “Where are you going?”
“Where there’s a little privacy.”
“Sorry. I don’t do the parking thing on a first date.”
She’s got to be kidding.
You look over at her; one of her hands is flat on seat beside her. The other is gripping the door handle.