Autumn Leaf

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.