Chapter Text
November 1, 1993
"It's so much easier to get lost here than it is back home," I say aloud.
The sky is a melancholy shade of pasty gray, casting a sad shadow across everything. The winding roads are cracked and curvy, with crumbling shoulders and faded painted lines, and riddled with potholes- Car Killers, I'd heard them called. I do my best to remember the route now that I've gotten off of the interstate, and wish I had a passenger to direct me. I'm almost certainly lost.
I crest the mountain, having passed every entrance to the Appalachian trail. I huff, disappointed to be out of the woods. I look around as I pass fields and old houses, wondering when I should pull over to re-orient myself. Finally, I came to a stop at a T-intersection.
"Where even am I?" I ask myself, definitely not where I am supposed to be; I'm supposed to be on 183, I think . I stare at my options as cars speed past in front of me,
← Ft Indiantown Gap 15
Pine Grove →
My eyes move downward to the two signs indicating which route I would take,
West
443
←
East
443
→
To the left, a blue sign reads:
To
Interstate
81
←
The hotel is called "Pine Grove."
Huffing, lost as ever, I choose to turn right, "I hate Pennsylvania."
I take one long, final drag from my cigarette before flicking it out of the window. I make my turn, still taking glances at the unfamiliar scenery. Crumbling houses, churches of various denominations, endless trees, rotting cemeteries, and too many dead deer to count. Eventually, I found a gas station to pull into. Eager to stretch my legs, and take a rest, I grab the map from my passenger seat, unfolding it quickly.
"Hampton Inn, Hampton Inn, Hampton Inn..." I whisper to myself, "Ah!" My eyes land on it, fifteen minutes in the other direction. Mildly annoyed and incredibly tired, I pulled out of the gas station, and began my drive in the proper direction.
I find the Inn, I check in, I unpack. The same routine I've followed in the last 12 cities.
Exhausted, and sore from driving, I try to remind myself of how much I love my job, "It's rewarding. It's so rewarding," I try to stretch, "You love teaching," I take a seat on the bed, "You love the environment," I rub my eyes, "This is the perfect combination."
"It has to be this dreary weather that has me so down," I mutter. Looking out the hotel window to the sad, gray skies, I roll my eyes. The cold makes my joints ache, and I miss the desert sun. The sun is low behind the murky clouds. This place is so depressing. I rise to my feet, grabbing my keys from the top of dresser. I scanned the map, now mounted to the wall, for a place to eat.
-
Deciding upon a rinky-dink diner, Red Lion Cafe, I opt to just sit at the 'bar.' There are only four chairs, three of which are taken, so I take the one on the end. Two men on the other end speak to each other loudly, like friends, about work, their wives, and the latest football game. The young man next to me is silent as he stirs his drink absentmindedly.
He's wearing a light-wash denim jacket and camouflage cargo pants, he's better dressed for this climate than I am . With that, a small shiver shoots through me as I'm reminded of the cold air that penetrates my flowy cotton pants.
I shift my eyes to him, noticing that he had turned to me.
"Hey," he starts, "Are you from around here?" he asks me, an inquisitive look painting his face. His hair is in dreads, his ears are pierced, he doesn't fit in here, either.
I huff out a breathy laugh, "Not even a little," I roll my eyes, smiling "Why?"
He let out a small laugh as well, "Ah, neither am I," he shakes his head, "I'm a little lost, I was hoping you would know how to get back to where I need to be." He has a bit of a lisp, his accent is hard to place.
I nod, "Yeah, I'm sorry. I have no idea where I am, either."
He smiles with perfect teeth, "It's alright. Where are you from, then?"
I wonder for a moment if I should be honest with this stranger. Ultimately, I decide there isn't any harm in telling him the truth, "New Mexico. I'm here for work. How about you?"
"California. I'm here for work, too," he takes a sip from his cup before turning back to me, "What kind of work brings you all the way from New Mexico?" He asks me curiously.
"What kind of work brings you all the way from California?" I counter.
He smiles again, "I'm a musician."
A musician.
"I'm not," I say flatly. He looks at me expectantly for a few seconds. I twist the silver turquoise ring around my finger, and decide to continue, "I'm an environmental educator. I go to camps and nature preserves and give classes on the environment. I do a lot with activism."
A waitress finally appears, and takes my order. She compliments my nails.
The stranger picks up the conversation again, "That's pretty cool, you know. I'd like to think of myself as an activist."
I push my hair behind my ear, annoyed when it snags into my earring, "I'm sure you would," I face him again, "You're a musician, after all," I finish, dropping my hands into my lap.
He laughs at my bluntness, "You just say what you mean, huh?" He shifts to angle himself more toward me.
I look at him blankly, refusing to let on to my interest in the conversation, "Usually, yeah."
He nods, "I like that; honesty like that is rare."
I smile at him, finally, "It is," I nod, "I'm extra honest to account for the deficit in the world," I laugh. He laughs, too.
"I'm Zack, by the way."
"What's that short for?" I ask, deciding against sharing what I hadn't been asked to.
He gives me a puzzled look for a moment, "Zacharias," he continues, "You know, typically, when somebody tells you their name, you tell them yours," he says, a small grin adorning his face. He's rather handsome.
"Typically, when somebody wants to know something, they ask about it," I reply. "It's Nizhoni."
"Nizhoni?" he repeats, like he's pondering it, "That's pretty."
I can't help but take note of how nice my name sounded falling from his lips, "Thanks," I reply, my usual confidence a bit shaken, "I go by Joni."
"Ah, alright. It's nice to meet you, Joni," he extends his hand toward me. I take his hand into mine, shaking it firmly, the bracelets on my wrist jingling quietly.
"It's nice to meet you, Zack," I say as he shoots me another bright smile. I try to reestablish my control of the situation, "What kind of musician are you?"
He grins a little wider, "I guess you could call me a rapper."
I stare at him, taking in his bright smile, the light-blue denim of his jacket, his energy, "Really?" I ask skeptically. Nothing about him gives any indication of such a thing.
He chuckles lightly, "Yeah, really. I front this band, Rage Against the Machine," he speaks with his hands, an endearing habit.
"I don't really listen to the radio much, if I'm to be honest," I say, almost embarrassed. I shake the feeling from myself, trying to keep my head clear.
He shakes his head, "I wouldn't expect you to have heard us on the radio either way. We aren't very big."
My face scrunches, "You're big enough that it's brought you from California all the way here."
"Okay, fair enough," he laughs.
"Where are you playing?" I question, unsure of my motives.
"Philadelphia, on Wednesday. Why, do you wanna come?"
"I'm not sure, maybe. I don't start work until Monday," I look to him, "So, Zack, how did you get so lost that you had to ask a stranger for help? Aren't you with your band?" I ask, trying to redirect the conversation.
He lets out a short laugh, "It's kind of stupid," he pauses, "I just missed driving, I guess."
I tilt my head, not quite following what he meant. His eyes meet mine as he sinks his top teeth into his lip, "I just drove for a while, to clear my head. I drove until it felt right," he concludes.
"And ended up almost three hours away?" I giggle.
He smiles widely, "Yeah, pretty much." He takes another long drink from his glass before continuing, "How about you? What got you to this particular piece of nowhere?"
I laugh at that, "Camp Swatara," I say, nodding, "A kids camp, about 15 minutes from here. I'm teaching the kids about taking care of the Earth."
"That sounds..." he pauses, "Fun?" he lets out a short laugh.
I laugh, too, "It is fun, I love my job," I hesitate, "I haven't been loving Pennsylvania, though. I'm hoping it grows on me, since I'll be here for a little while, yet."
He nods, seeming to understand, "The weather is so different from home."
I perk up with that, "Exactly! It's so depressing here. The sky seems to always be murky grey, and it's colder than a paratrooper in Bastogne."
He laughs loudly at that, "Man, you're funny." He has this huge, endearing smile. I feel myself falter for a moment, unsure of what to say.
"I know, right?" I reply, coolly.
He laughs, and nods. The waitress returns with my order.
"New Mexico, yeah?" He starts, "I've been a few times. Where ya from?"
I smile a bit, happy to talk about my home. I revisit, for a second, if I should be so honest with a stranger. Screw it, "City of the Sun, I doubt you've heard of it."
"Nah, you've got me," he shakes his head, "What's it near?"
"It's really close to the border," I say, eating a fry, "Just north of Columbus, off Route 11."
"Oh, yeah. North of Puerto Palomas, right?" He asks, nodding.
"Yeah, actually," I reply, surprised. "So, Zack, where in California are you from?"
He grimaces, "Born in Long Beach, grew up in Irvine; awful place."
"Big, rich city in Orange County? I can imagine," I laugh dryly. I take a bite of my sandwich.
"I'm sure you get it," he shrugs, "No offense."
I finish chewing, furrowing my eyebrows, "What? Racism?" I sip my drink. He gives another weak shrug, and I roll my eyes, "Yeah, I get it. No offense taken," I say, keeping my tone as flat as possible.
Silence hangs thick between us, I decide to continue, "I grew up off the rez, which changes things." He nods quietly. I keep talking, for some reason, "Back home it isn't too bad, but out here? They look at me like I'm wearing a biil or tsiyeel just because I don't look like them."
"I bet it's worse in Irvine, though," I laugh, taking another bite.
He laughs, too, luckily.
"Yeah, man," He starts, shaking his head, "Zacharias de la Rocha, son of a Chicano, ruining their perfect city." We both laugh.
"You got a cellphone?" He asks me.
I pause, contemplating how this could go. Slowly, I nod, "I do, yeah. Want my number?" I ask, surprised by my words.
"I'd love it, actually," He smiles that big, wide smile again.
I hesitate before pulling the pen from my bag, and scribbling my number onto a napkin.
"You're a lefty?" He asks as I write my name below the numbers.
I hum in confirmation, sliding him the napkin.
"Cool, you don't meet a lot of those."
I laugh lightly and continue eating.
In a moment of boldness, I ask, "You got anything going on tonight?"
If he's surprised by my words, he doesn't show it. A slow grin takes over his features, "No, free as a bird," He says, smooth as can be.
I nod, unsure what to say now. He cuts off my embarrassment, "Neither of us know this place, you got any ideas?"
I try to keep my tone level, disinterested, cool, "I have a map in my hotel room, we could head there and figure something out," I suggest, finishing my fries.
He folds the napkin with my number and stuffs it in the pocket of his cargo pants, "I like the sound of that," He smiles, and flags down the waitress. He pays for both of us, before I can object.
"I'll have to follow you," He says, standing from his seat.
Still in stunned silence, I simply nod my head, confidence fully shaken. He offers his hand to help me stand. Surprisingly, I take it. His hand is warm, and rough as he pulls me to my feet, and I realize he's much taller than I had anticipated. He towers over me, though most do.
"I drive the red Toyota," I speak, finally.
-
I unlock the door of my hotel room, and he follows me inside. I slide my boots off beside the door, and make my way across the room. Only then, it occurs to me that I have brought a stranger into the place I am staying, alone, in an area that no one would realize I was missing in. This was a bad idea.
I switch on the lamp beside my bed, and approach the map hung on my wall. I scan it for a bit, before my eyes fall on a small town I recognize, "Hey, Zack?"
He's remained near the door, not to crowd me, I assume. He's taken his shoes off as well, his hands at his sides, waiting for my next move. I adjust my necklace nervously, watching him.
He cocks his heads, "Got something?"
More at ease now, I continue, "Ever heard of Centralia?"
"It rings a bell, I think."
"It's this little ghost town above these mines that got set on fire in some freak accident. Whole place is abandoned now," I start, "I drove through it going north a while back. There's this closed bit of highway, and you can see smoke rising out of the ground."
"Oh, yeah! I have heard about that!" His eyes light up, and he moves closer to me, setting me on-edge again. Come on, Joni. Let your guard down.
"Wanna go? You said you like driving," I smile at him. He smiles, too, still a few feet from me, "It's about 30 minutes north up 81, I think."
He nods, "Yeah, I'm in."
-
I pull my box of cigarettes from my bag as we pass an exit named 'Ravine.' I gesture vaguely to the window, "That's a cool name, Ravine."
He hums lightly in agreement.
"You smoke?" I ask him, finding the blue lighter at the bottom of my bag.
"Sometimes," he nods, "Don't judge me, but weed tends to be more my speed."
"I'm native, we do peyote," I laugh, "You think I'll judge weed?"
"I didn't want to assume," he chuckles.
"I've actually never smoke weed before, believe it or not."
"Really?" He asks, a hint of surprise in his voice.
"Really," I say simply.
He nods quietly, "Ever want to try it?"
"Yeah, I've just never had the opportunity," I reply casually.
"I could change that," he suggests, and I giggle lightly.
"You want a cigarette?" I ask him, pulling two from the pack.
"Sure, thank you."
I place the first between my lips, lighting it and taking the first drag. I pass it to him, hoping he doesn't mind the lipstick I've left on the filter. He takes it between his fingers, pulling a long drag. I guess he doesn't mind.
I watch him for a moment, taking him in, before lighting my own cigarette and cranking down the window a crack. I pull my thin button-up closer as the cold air enters the car, wishing I had changed into a sweater. A comfortable silence falls between us as we pass a few cars and a thousand trees. Pennsylvania isn't so bad.
I fuss with the rings around my fingers, wanting him to keep speaking.
"So, tell me about your band," I try, unsure.
He smiles, and starts telling me about meeting 'Tom' as a child.
-
We pull off of 61, on the mostly abandoned stretch. Graffiti litters the pavement- smiley faces, peace signs, swastikas, names. A lot of history.
"Spray paint and a blunt in the backseat, if you're interested," he says casually, nodding his head backward.
"Always prepared, huh?" I ask. I unbuckle my seatbelt and face him.
"Always," he says with a wide smile.
I turn and bend into the backseat, choosing the light purple paint.
"Hand me the green one, please," he says beside me. I locate the green paint and pass it to him.
"Blunt is in a plastic bag," he tells me.
"Yeah, I see it," I say as I pick the bag up off of the seat. He thanks me as I pass him the bag, and tells me to wait a second.
He exits the car, coming to my side to open my door. I thank him quietly, unable to find my voice. He keeps his distance from me as we walk, searching for the right place.
"I don't know what to paint," I say as he shakes his can.
"Just go with what feels right," he pops the cap and bends down. I watch him, curious as to what he's making.
"The Ouroboros?" I tilt my head. He smiles, backing away to admire his work. He nods simply.
I shake my can, and pop the top, dropping it onto the cracked pavement. I bend down, writing each letter carefully.
"What does that mean?" He asks, not an ounce of judgement in his voice.
"Hózhó," I state, leaning again to add a sun below it, "It sort of means 'harmony.'"
He nods as I back away from it, "I guess the exact translation would be 'walking in beauty,' if you want to get technical," I laugh.
"That's beautiful, pun intended," he chuckles.
"It's like a piece of home up here now," I say softly. He approaches me, still keeping a few inches between us.
"You'll have to show me around the next time I'm in New Mexico," he says, gently draping his arm around my shoulders.
I tense at the contact, fumbling for words, "Yeah, I'd- um, I would love to." I try to maintain my composure, forcing myself to settle beneath the weight of his arm.
He smells really good.
He guides me to the line of trees, finding a patch of grass dry enough for us to sit. I sit first, then him beside me, our knees touching. I fight the urge to scoot away, apprehensive.
He lights the blunt and takes a hit, then holds it to my lips, "Pull, then inhale," he instructs, sending a wave of butterflies through my stomach. I do as he says, then exhale the thick cloud of smoke.
"Good job," he says softly. The sweetness of his words pulls the bitter taste from my mouth.
"It's kind of bitter," I say softly. He watches me as I speak, taking another hit. "It's earthy like peyote, or the tobacco leaves my shimásání used to smoke on the porch."
He holds the blunt to my lips again, instructing just as before. I feel myself get warmer, be it his words or the weed.
We sit in silence, passing it back and forth for a while.
He breaks the silence, muttering a quiet, "Trust me."
I nod as he takes the last hit, holding it and snuffing the blunt on the ground. He leans forward, toward me. He closes the gap between us, exhaling the bitter smoke into my open lips. His hands remain on the ground at his sides, his lips just centimeters from mine.
A voice in the back of my head reminds me that we just met, but it quiets as I lean and touch my lips to his. My hand moves to his shoulder, his to my face. He brushes the hair from my face and grabs it gently, as his tongue lightly touches mine.
I pull away first, staring into his large, brown eyes.
"You're a good kisser," I say quietly.
"You're beautiful."
"My middle name is Morning Glory."
He laughs softly, "Mine is Manuel."
He kisses me again, gently as before. My hand finds the hem of his shirt, slipping beneath it.
I pull back, for only a second. "Do you wanna go back to my hotel room?" I rush out.
His eyebrows raise. I shake my head quickly, earrings jingling quietly, "Not in that way!" I laugh, a smile breaking across my face.
He nods, rising to his feet before reaching down to help me. He pulls me to my feet, before his hands find my waist.
"You really are beautiful," he says. I smile as he leans down to kiss me again. I could get used to this.
He leads me back to the car, opening my door. He gets in, too, starting the car.
-
In my hotel room once again, our shoes lay near the door while he lays between my legs, his lips on mine. My button-up is cast to the floor, leaving only the tank top underneath. His jacket is gone, too, leaving behind the well-worn T-shirt. His hand is wound in the hair at the back of my head while I bring my hips up to meet his. He pulls my hair lightly, moving to kiss my neck.
"I think I'll come to your show on Wednesday, if the offer still stands," I say, breathless.
-
I admire him, wearing only boxers.
"We aren't going to have sex, you know," I say, matter-of-factly.
"I know," he laughs coolly.
"I'm not that kind of girl," I state.
"I'm sure you make your daddy proud," he says, smiling.
I laugh lightly, "Oh, gross!"
He sits beside me on the bed, taking in the sight like he's memorizing me. Tank top, braless, star-printed underwear, I let things go too far. The weight settles around me, but, I like it.
He looks down. "I like the birthmark on your hip," he touches it gently, "It looks like a little cartoon shoeprint." His hands are warm, so is his gaze. He watches me closely as his hand travels slowly inward.
"How about I bring you with me tomorrow?" He asks softly, like he wanted to preserve the calm quiet between us.
I nod, his hand resting on my inner thigh. "Sounds good to me."
His hand trails up, I shudder as it lays along my ribs.
"If you don't mind me asking," he looks to me, "Why aren't you wearing a bra if you're so cold?"
I giggle, muffling a snort.
"Good job killing the mood," I snort again.
Collecting myself, I reply, "I'm one of those bra-burning, hippy-dippy Indians," I roll my eyes.
He looks both puzzled and amused by my response.
"I just don't like them," I shake my head, "I don't own any, and there isn't much to cover anyways," I giggle.
He laughs, too. He moves his hand slowly upward, waiting for permission. I take his hand in mine, guiding it higher, still outside of the thin fabric.
"Plenty for me," he smiles, leaning to kiss me again. I let his hands find their way beneath my top, as I find my way on top of him.
"My least favorite position to do anything else in," I laugh quietly.
He brushes his thumb over my nipple, "I guess it's a good thing we aren't doing anything else, then," he says smoothly.
"Not yet," I add, take his bottom lip between my teeth.
"Just say the word," he mutters, his grip a bit tighter.
"I'd rather let you lead," I say, my fingers trailing up his arm. He's muscular, I wonder what he could do.
"I'm here for you, angel," he holds my gaze, "I'll do whatever you want, nothing more."
I smile wide, "Nothing less, I'm sure."
He smiles, grinding his hips against mine, "Never." My pulse quickens. Screw it.
I let him pull my tank top off. He gazes at the large tattoo beneath my breasts, "This is beautiful, like the rest of you."
"Touch me," I nearly plead.
A slow smile graces his features. His fingers trace the wings of the butterfly etched into my torso, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
He leans forward, his lips trailing along the ink beneath my skin, "What's your last name?" he asks between kisses.
I giggle, "Really?"
He stops, smiling. I let out a low whine, and he nods in confirmation.
"It's Chischilly. Nizhoni Morning Glory Chischilly," I say quickly, "Now get me naked," I add, quietly, pathetically .
"Patience, pretty girl," he says softly. Goosebumps rise along my skin again.
"I'm in no rush," he adds, calmly.
-
"Leaving me all hot and bothered, unfair," I huff, crossing my arms.
He dips his hand into the running shower, testing the water temperature.
"Like I said, I'm in no rush," he says, cool as can be.
He turns to me, stepping closer. He reaches behind my neck, unclasping my necklace, before laying it on the sink. He continues, removing each earring, each bracelet, each ring, until I'm left only in underwear. He tugs the waistband down gently, his lips following. My breath catches in anticipation.
He instructs me to step of out them, and I obey. Still covered by his boxers, he takes in the sight of me, then guides me to the shower, fingers ghosting behind me. I hear him remove his boxers, and close the curtain. I feel him behind me as his hand finds my hip.
He pulls my hair back, letting the warm water catch it as I feel him pressed against my thigh. His hand moves from me, reaching for the bottle of rosemary shampoo on the ledge of the tub. He's going to smell like me now.
Running the soap through my hair, he lifts it from my shoulders, pausing.
"What does this say?" He asks, brushing his fingers along the words written at the base of my neck.
"It means 'I choose to live' in Diné bizaad," I say quietly.
“Funny,” he mutters under his breath. I don’t ask why, I just relish in the feel of his hands upon me.
"You're covered in tattoos," he continues, moving his hands along each. My shoulder, my spine, the small of my back. His hand moves lower, grabbing lightly and pressing himself against me. My breath catches, waiting for him to just do something to me.
He bends me forward gently, I reach for the bottle of conditioner, feeling his hand move inward, for only a second. He doesn't fully touch me, not yet. I let him condition my hair, desperate for the feel of his hands on me.
I don't turn to face him, not until he pulls me to look at him, kissing me softly. I restrain myself, not looking down yet. He fills my palm with magnolia-scented bodywash, and I lather it between my hands.
"I write music, too, you know," I say, my hands finding their way to his skin. My eyes meet his, continuing, "Music is pretty important to my culture."
"What kind of music?" he asks, my hands moving lower.
"Nothing traditional," I give a breathy laugh, "Nothing you would hear at a powwow."
"I'd love to hear it," he says, unaffected by my touch. Much cooler than me.
"Sure, my guitar is still in my truck."
"You play?"
"Yeah, you?"
He smiles, "Yeah, I do."
He kisses me again, pulling back to whisper, "You're beautiful." His thumb brushes across my cheek as he stares down at me.
I let out a small giggle, "You've said."
"I mean it," he smiles.
"You know what's funny?" I ask, my hands remaining on him.
His head cocks to the side, "What?"
"My name, Nizhoni, means 'beautiful' in Diné bizaad."
"That's perfect," he mutters, his hand finding my hip. He pushes me against the wall behind me, kissing me deeply.
-
He fiddles with my guitar, sitting on the edge of the bed in his boxers and a green flannel from his car. I watch, braiding my damp hair. I watch him as he plays a Spanish folk song, singing quietly.
I tie off my braid, sprawling across the bed.
He pauses singing, "Your toes match your fingers," he says, a small smile adorning his face. He brushes his fingers against the blue polish, and I pull my legs away, giggling.
"Don't touch my feet!" I laugh.
He rolls his eyes, a smile still painted across his face, "They're just another part of you."
I roll my eyes, too, hugging my knees against my chest, "You're strange."
"You are too, I like it." He resumes his playing. I watch, feeling a strange fondness for this stranger.
He finishes his song, patting the spot next to him, "Your turn, pretty girl."
I crawl towards him, sitting and taking the guitar. The polished wood is cool against my bare thighs.
"Okay, this song is called Queen of the Universe," I mutter, beginning the chords.
He sits, quietly listening, watching my fingers play each note, watching my lips with every word. I catch his eyes mid-verse, fumbling a bit. He doesn't say a word.
I finish, releasing a shaky breath as I set my guitar on the floor beside me.
"That was amazing," he says softly. He moves his hand to my waist, lifting my well-worn TOOL t-shirt. His eyes linger on the shirt for only a moment, a small smile playing across his lips. His calloused fingertips are warm against my skin. He kisses me gently, and I let myself fall back onto the mattress, keeping my lips to his. His other hand finds its way up my shirt, moving higher as his knee presses lightly between my thighs.
He pulls me upright against the pillows, slowly pushing my shirt higher. My eyes meet his, I nod slowly. He lifts my shirt off of me, and I lay nearly bare beneath him. Thin cotton underwear barely preserve my modesty, not like it matters. I feel more bare, somehow, out of the shower, beneath him like this.
"You're the most beautiful thing I have ever laid eyes on," he says, pulling me from my thoughts.
I roll my eyes, smiling, "You're pretty gorgeous your own self," I say, pull the flannel from his arms.
He kisses me much harder, much deeper this time, gripping at my skin, almost desperate. I moan softly beneath his lips as his hand finds my breast. His touches become soft again, kissing down my neck. I whine as his teeth catch my skin. My hands hold his shoulders as he makes his way down my stomach. He reaches the waistband of my light green underwear, and his eyes meet mine. He stares up at me in near amazement from between my thighs.
I nod, "Please."
-
He wipes the warm, damp washcloth against my skin softly, peppering kisses behind it. He's donned his boxers once again, while I still lay bare before him. He asks if I can stand so he can change the sheets.
"You don't wanna lay in the puddle I left?" I jest sleepily.
"I don't think you do," he laughs. He lifts me gently, placing me in the small chair across the room.
"Only for a moment," he promises. He changes the sheets quickly, returning me to the bed. He tucks the blanket over me, kissing my forehead softly. The cool cotton sheets are stiff and clean beneath me. The bed dips as he returns with a glass of water, instructing me to drink.
He joins me under the covers, pulling me close to him. After a moment, he sits up a bit, slipping the hair-tie from my hair to re-braid it.
"Impressive," I mutter softly.
"Jack of all trades," he replies, a soft laugh.
His calloused fingers soothe along my back as he lies back down.
"Your hair is beautiful," he says softly.
I laugh faintly, "Thanks, it's kind of our thing."
He laughs, too, holding me closer. He's warm against me, a pleasant juxtaposition to the cold sheets.
"I feel like a snake who found a toasty rock," I state contentedly.
An incredulous laugh, "What?"
"You're warm," I press against him, "I like it."
He strokes the side of my face softly, "I hope I didn't hurt you."
"Wasn't that the point?" I giggle softly.
He rolls his eyes playfully, "I mean, I hope I didn't go too far."
I shake my head, "I loved every second."
"Good."
-
November 2, 1993
I wake up to a glass of water on the nightstand, and the bed empty beside me. A pit forms in my stomach, and I roll over dazedly.
"Good morning, pretty girl," I hear from across the room. Relief. He's peeling an orange, fully clothed. On the table beside him lies my clothing, folded.
Wait.
"Hang on, where did you get that?"
"What?" he asks, tilting his head.
"The orange," obviously.
"The grocery store?" he replies, a mix of condescension and confusion.
"What?" Furrowing my eyebrows, "What time is it?" I ask, exasperated.
He looks to his watch, "8:27 in the morning."
"How did you get back in?"
"Your keys."
"Why?"
"You just got here, you haven't been to the store yet."
"I..." I start, at a loss for words, "Okay."
He smiles at my confusion and strolls up beside the bed. He's in dark-wash jeans and a black T-shirt. He's so handsome.
"I'm not awake enough yet," I say, disoriented. A bit of light filters through the window, the sky is still dim and cloudy as yesterday.
"You're so pretty," he hums softly.
I laugh at that, "I just woke up."
"I said what I said," he replies simply.
"We had sex," I say, unsure of my motive.
He hums in agreement, watching me pull off the covers. Goosebumps rise over my skin as the cold air hits me.
"You're so beautiful," he corrects himself.
"I'm covered in hickies and just woke up," I huff.
"Exactly," he smiles.
He doesn't try to touch me, waiting patiently for my move. I reach for him, and he hugs me softly. Kissing the top of my head, he moves me toward my clothes. I like this stranger.
"Let's get you dressed, pretty girl."
Kneeling before me, he instructs me to step into my underwear, pulling them up my body. Worn, faded, embroidered patchwork jeans follow.
"I like these," He says, zipping and buttoning them for me.
"Thank you," I smile, "They started as normal jeans in middle school." I gesture to the small flowers, the patches of patterned fabric, "I did this."
He stands, kissing me, and continues dressing me- a button-up tank top, a baggy, worn-out cardigan, used to be dad's.
"I can put my own socks on," I laugh.
I move to the bathroom, brushing my hair and teeth. He lingers in the doorway, observing.
"See something you like?" I spit in the sink, rinsing it down the drain.
He smiles, nodding simply in the mirror. I replace all of my jewelry from the night before.
"What should I wear tomorrow?"
"Whatever you want, you'll look beautiful no matter what," he says, moving closer.