Autumn
Leaf
The leaf skittered
across the grass and paused for a moment, caught on a green blade, as
if hesitant to roll any further from its hovering parent. The cool
autumn air was a moist blanket against her red cheeks. She looked up
at the Maple which still held most of its leaves with delicate grace.
It was beautiful with orange and brown tones that brightened the day
with an illusion of warmth. She had read that the color orange had
the strange psychological effect of making a person hungry, but under
this tree she felt no desire for food or any other kind of earthly
comfort. She hadn't had an appetite in quite some time.
A gust of wind picked
up and the leaf cartwheeled onward joined by its siblings that
parachuted from overhanging branches. The crackling sound of these
crisp skeletons as they brushed up against one another was as cozy
and reminded her of crackling fires that wafted a cheery blend of
fragrant smoke from the surrounding chimneys. But try as she might
she could not bring herself to be grateful.
She sat on the grass
ignoring the cold droplets of dew that were seeping up through her
denim seat. She listened to a passing car and transformed it into a
curling wave on a desolate shore. The sky above was white and gray
with big nimbus clouds that were kindly holding back their icy drops.
“Why can I not be
like you and feed upon myself?” she asked Maple. If only she could
sustain herself and feed off finger nails and hair, but a salad of
keratin, protein though it was, would never suffice. Even the food
she ate did not satiate her soul. She suppressed a shiver as another
gust pressed through her varying layers of cotton. Was it water that
had finally penetrated, or simply the cold earth that she felt
wicking up through her jeans? She focused on the discomfort,
gleaning what relief she could. Physical pain was a blessing. It
distracted her and was so much more easy to deal with than the
despair that assuaged her every time she opened her eyes in the
morning. Assuming she had closed them at all.
Her dreams were no
better. Always there was someone chasing her, someone belittling or
disappointed in her. Last night he was there again. Always just out
of arms reach, and stretch as she may, leaning with all her might,
her fingers could only grasp the empty space where he should be. If
only he would meet her half way.
Her face flushed hot,
and pressure in her sinuses squeezed the first tears into her eyes.
“God why?” Vision
clouding over, she lay back on the grass and looked up at the the
Maple without wiping away the pools that spilled over and slipped
down her cheek. The irony of the light tickle when a watery trail
reached her ear lobe, like the light flick of a tongue, made her
smile in bitter nostalgia. A seed spun like a helicopter
onto her chest and she laughed without knowing why.
Everything spun apart
and dissipated. All order became chaos. Everything, since the big
bang gave its first cosmic shove, was flying apart. So why did
anyone ever try to grab hold of anything? Not only was she helpless
as she watched him drift away, but in her desperation to make it
right, she had somehow made it worse. She clenched her hands into
fists, nails digging into palms as she tried to transform the pain
into anger. An impassioned heat rose in her chest as her face
contorted into a snarl. Nails digging, teeth clenching, eyes
burning, but it was no use trying, and after a few moments she
relaxed and didn't try to swallow the knot of misery as it rose in
her throat. She was so tired, too tired to feel anything. Why
couldn't she just be numb? Maybe she needed drugs. No.
He never loved her.
Not really. But she remembered the tender looks and the way he held
her cheeks with his palms and told her how beautiful she was. She
remembered everything, the months of excitement, the plans to travel,
the decision to buy a cat to raise and love in the place of a child.
It was all so perfect, but none of it was real. Not even the cat
became a reality. The touches of affection fell away as did the
praises which had the power of transforming her into the happiest
girl in the world.
She blinked as a tiny
speck of rain fell onto her cheek. Perhaps the clouds would weep
after all. Shouldn't they? She sat up again and felt her pockets
for something to blow her nose into. No, it didn't matter. Nothing
mattered, and so she pulled her sweatshirt sleeve across her palm and
blew into it leaving a glistening patch of mucus. She looked at the
shiny gob of goo. If anyone asked she would tell them a slug had
done donuts there. She wiped it off onto the grass and heaved a sigh
that fluttered out in uneven spasms. She was so tired of this.
Everyone told her that it would take time to heal, but it had been
months and the pain was still fresh and raw, his face still present,
mocking her everywhere she turned.
She had tried to fuck
away the pain. The first time she had been disappointed after the
thirty second sprint that ended in premature ejaculation, leaving her
chaffed and unfulfilled. If only there was a sex app that showed
size, libido and durability. The next guy had been a bit better, but
his tender touches made her feel sick. He had even tried to kiss her
on the lips which was completely unacceptable.
She decided to be
straight forward with the next guy. A couple drinks gave her the
courage to ask for what she wanted: a fuck buddy, no strings. She
hadn't expected this guy, so rugged looking with his manly jaw and
cute little dimples, to be such a sap. No, not a sap, he was an
asshole. After a half hour of slamming into her, she came with
gusto, but he was still hard. She had no qualms about going down and
didn't even try to stop him as he pulled down on the back of her
head. After he blew his wad she figured he'd be on his way. Slam,
bam, thank you mam, and why not? The sex had been good, and maybe
they could do it again some time. But then he had started brushing back
her hair, as if she were some sort of dog that needed a pat. That
was bad enough, but when he started to babble, words pouring out of
his head with idiotic abandon, she started to get annoyed. He
explained that he felt lucky to have met her, and then started into a
story about his ex girlfriend who would never give him head. She
placated him for a minute, cooing out noises of sympathy, but when he
lay down on the bed and lit up a cigarette, she decided to be more
abrupt.
“Hey, I really had a
good time, but this isn't a date, and not to be rude, but you really
need to go now.” He looked at her with shock at first, but a
moment later his eyes glazed over into a sulk of self pity. It was the
epitome of unattractive.
“I hope you know
you're being a bitch,” he said as he jerked on a shoe.
“Why, because I
don't want to hear about your ex girlfriend? Let me remind you that
I just sucked your cock, so please, I don't need the drama.” He
regarded her with a blank expression for a moment and then scowled
and tightened his belt.
“Well, it's a good
thing you suck,” he said with a cold smile. “Because your loose
ass pussy is like fucking a wet paper bag.” His eyes gleamed with a vengeful sadism.
“You mother fucker!”
She said. He grinned. She spun around, scanning the room, but was
unable to find anything to pick up and hurl at him. He shook his head, smiling dimples, before slamming the door. Her ears rang, heart pounding
in her ears. She was beginning to hyperventilate, the room outlined
in red. She was seeing red with a venom she had never felt! Then
the tears came. All the rage faded into agony. Whore! And
then she began to wonder if what he said was true. Once again, with
perfect clarity, the face she had been trying to forget rose up, and
now it wore a satisfied smirk, head shaking with disgust and
contempt. Dirty loose pussy whore. Her sobs turned
hysterical. She fell onto the mattress burying her head in the
pillow and screamed. She kicked her feet and pounded her fist on the
head board. And screamed.
Work had been the only
thing that kept her sane. Forced to deal with the steady flow of
caffeine junkies, she had to put on the mask: Service with a Smile.
Without the tips the pay would be absolute shit, so she gathered all
that hurt into a neat little pile, and swept it under a little shelf
in her mind. She flashed pearly whites for the paltry tips. Whore.
But did it matter? It certainly didn't matter if she sold her
smile. Or her body. No, she would never accept money for sex, but
she would only turn down drinks if the guys buying them were truly
unfuckable.
Wet
paper bag. The phrase kept
popping up like a sadistic Jack-In-the-Box, and every time she felt
her stomach churn. Well good. Hate was something she could live
with. She hated that mother fucker almost as much as she hated
herself. She kept picturing his dimpled grin and smashing it to a
bloody mess. She imagined ripping his cock off with her pussy.
Riding on top she would clench and twist, taking pleasure in his screams for mercy before a
geyser of blood shot up. I'll show you wet paper bag you
little prick fucktard! By the
end of the week she had kegeled so much she felt her vagina to be
tight as a bear trap.
Between
orders as she steamed milk and brewed espresso she would find moments
of stillness, moments where she could almost forget. Maybe that's
what they meant by time healing. Her hands were busy as her mind
tried to keep the orders right. Milk or soy, nonfat or whole, and
always she felt their eyes on her ass. She knew many of these men
were old enough to be her father, or even grandfather, but that
didn't deter them. As she stood twisting the portafilter baskets
into place, pushing buttons and engaging the steam wand, she could
feel them at the counter behind her, staring.
When
she first landed the job she had considered buying a looser pair of
black slacks that were required, but none of the other baristas had.
Besides, did it even matter? Let them look and lust; let them
fantasize. There was a reason coffee shops like these hired girls
like her.
Sometimes
men would enter that would look at her with a confident smile as if
their conquest were a foregone conclusion. There was something
appealing about their knowing eyes, but these past three months, the
time without him, she felt nothing but a calloused disinterest. An
unbreachable wall rose up from that pile of damaged debris.
“You
okay girl?” She looked up to see a suave black man standing in
front of her. She had been staring vacantly out the window at the
Maple across the street in the park and hadn't noticed him come in.
He was quite tall, sporting fresh athletic brand clothing and smelled of
pine trees. His large brown eyes weren't predatory, but she knew
this to be his own mask of charm. False sincerity or not, his
eyes had a softness that she rarely saw. It took her a moment to
realize he had asked her a question.
“I'm
good!” she chirped with a grin, “What can I get you?” His face
didn't change, eyebrows raised inquisitively. Had he not heard her
answer? His eyes were deep wells of concern, but a moment later he
nodded and stood up straighter. He looked behind her to the menu and
ordered a triple shot grande mocha.
“Okay,”
she said and turned to the machine behind her.
She
hadn't yet been with a black man. Maybe that's what she needed. She
imagined him on top of her, his big black cock slipping inside as she
gripped his firm athletic ass. But it was those eyes and the soul
behind them that she was curious about. Well, she would see. The milk foamed and she poured it
into his espresso. She paused for a moment and then spun around to
catch him looking, his eyes bouncing up to meet hers from where they
had been resting. But unlike the countless others she had caught, he didn't
seem in the least bit flustered. There was a calmness, a kindness in
his smile as she stepped over.
“Here
you go,” she said and handed him the paper cup, “Is there
anything else I can
get you?” What was she doing? She never flirted like this. Her
hand went up to touch the bottom of her hair. Please don't
blush. She looked passed him
out the window to the Maple trying to ignore the sensation of blood
as it rushed up to her face.
He
stood there for a moment in silence. She knew she must be red as a
radish but couldn't help but meet his gaze. She watched the invisible
gears spinning as he tried to decide whether or not to ask.
“Nah,
I'm good,” he said with a smile, but the smile was more distant and
the sparkle of interest and concern vanished. He dumped the change
from the five dollar bill into the tip jar.
“Fine
then,” she said, her business smile matching his, “Have a nice
day.” She was surprised at her own embarrassment and shook her
head. Perhaps there was hope yet. And just as she was beginning to
contemplate those brown eyes and big soft lips, another face surfaced
unbidden. The face from the pile she had been so careful to sweep under the shelf now crawled from hiding. She frowned as the memories tumbled out onto every
empty surface of her mind. Filthy whore. With short vicious motions she wiped down the counter with mantras of self deprecation unravelling endlessly.
The
clouds had not let loose, but the sky was growing dark as evening
approached. There were now several leaves that had blown against her
side. She picked one up and turned it idly in her fingers, a dead
thing with dried up veins that no longer carried water or absorbed
any light. It was cut off and alone, and now it would decay and rot.
She spun it around on its stem and held it up to the clouds. The
leaf was more brown than orange and felt somehow leathery, still
moist, but a mere shadow of the life it had so recently known on the
branch. Did it know that there was no going back? Did it care that
it was discarded, to be cannibalized?
There
he was again. His twinkling eyes and boisterous grin full of
youthful candor that promised so much. She let the good memory grip her as she was lifted
off the ground and spun around. She laughed, so weightless and free.
Safe and secure she felt like a young freshly blossoming leaf on a
spring day. Held tight, stem to branch, intertwined hands clasped.
The warm sun giving strength as the leaf grew and broadened in
summer's bliss. What had gone wrong? Now he was nothing but a pile
of trash that constantly cluttered her empty life. He was a
scattering of dead leaves stifling the green grass that blew out of
order every time she raked them into place. Why couldn't he leave if
he was gone?
A
haunted sigh of wind whipped around the branches and a flurry of
leaves descended like big brown flakes, a prelude to winters snow, to
bleached bones. She didn't stir as a leaf lighted on her
face with a faint rustle.
“You
okay girl?” The voice startled her. The leaf obscured her view,
but she knew the voice.
“No,”
She answered after a moment without stirring. She wasn't okay because memory lane was a trip she couldn't escape. No, she was far from okay.
He
squatted down and plucked the leaf from her face. She could not make
out his expression with the fading light of the clouds silhouetting
his head, but she saw the whites of his eyes and then noticed his white teeth glowing on his dark face.
“Me
neither.” He said. “But it's cold out here, and I'm not sure if
you wanted it, but I brought you a mocha.”
She
smiled but couldn't find her voice. A big wet drop landed on her
forehead and she squinted. Suddenly all around her was the laughter
of thousands of leaves being pounded and flattened against the grass.
