Giddy Up

Later on, I looked up as she straddled my chest. The shortness of breath was worth it; ribs compressing my kidneys was worth it, awaiting her decision of what to do with me.

That night I wrote in the blue book:

When she climbs on top of me
When she throws her head down and drops her hair into my face
When she lies on me, knees up, straddling my chest, head in my neck
Sleeping like a beautiful unfinished marionette.

“Aren’t you worried she’ll find out?”

“I am not concerned.”

“Shut up, stop saying that.”

“I am not concerned.”

“You’re an ass.”

I blew her a kiss and walked away. You never look back when you leave, just like you always wait until she’s out of sight when you drop her off. Everyone has secrets. There are things, events, actions, that you should never tell a single soul. Things that had a logic or reason to happen, but can never be fully understood. People will look back upon it and never be able to comprehend the history of that event, never be able to look you in the eye without judging. A human being is capable of an extraordinary surrender to the curiosities of survival instinct. These days, you are your own claws; tongue, hands, wit, posture. They will define your longevity. Never ever ever drop the soap, and never ever ever tell anyone those secrets. And unless you have some sort of self-destructive fetish, never write them down either.