Despite my pleasure I couldn’t help bittersweet thoughts of her creeping into my mind. I thought of her lying on the bench in her dirty coat, looking up at me. I saw her slumped in the bar, growling into her whiskey and suddenly flashing me that smile of pride. I saw her in bed, over and over, spitting commands and rebukes at me and remembered searching for a glint of warmth in her as her body covered mine. The anger and sadness spurred me to fuck harder, and I drove my hips convulsively until the orgasm gripped me fiercely. I screamed unashamedly until the last ebb died away, and then I sat, breathless and defeated, my head against the sculpture’s shoulder. I began to shiver miserably.
No sooner had I sat still I felt her hands on my shoulders. She probably wanted more, and I was just too tired of the whole thing to care. I noticed then a tenderness in her touch and I turned.
She was weeping. She gathered me in her arms, and my body rejoiced at the warmth and dryness of her clothes. She drew me away from the sculpture and cried. She had seen me, finally; she had seen more than my outlines and glimpsed a little of what I saw in her sculpture. She wept almost inconsolably into my neck as I shushed her quietly.
THE SWEET TOOTH NEVER FADES
Erica Gimpelevich
Four months broken up, and I’ve got Alice bent over a table, breasts crushed against the polished wood. My crotch grinds into her ass, humping her through fabric. She moans, squirms around until I hook my fingers into bony hips and use the grip to keep her steady.
“Fuck me,” she says.
I pause. Lust and reason are competing for dominance of my brain.
“Fuck me or I’ll get someone else to.” “Someone else” is code for my replacement: a slender, self-important, dickwad who struts around town in expensive suits.
I yank her pants down around her ankles in one violent motion. My palm connects sharply against her flesh. She gasps and moans, her bare ass jiggling. I smack it again with a solid crack that echoes around the room. I keep hitting her until my hand stings and her skin turns blotchy red.
I’m not sure how this happened. Last time I saw her, there had been a lot of yelling. most of it directed at me. Something about my being a “motherfucking asshole who’s a motherfucking lunatic if she thinks she can keep playing Peter Pan in my goddamn house.”
We’d just broken up and I hadn’t finished packing. Two years together and she’d dumped me over something as stupid as not making rent. So, yeah, I was pissed. But I hadn’t expected her to get home early. Or to walk in on my rebound—a pretty redhead with long, curly hair and freckles on her tits—lying spreadeagled across the couch with me buried to the wrist between her legs. An innocent mistake; it could happen to anyone. And I have a right to drown my sorrow, right? Apparently not. She kicked me out, butt-naked, along with my date.
After that, things got awkward: lots of clunky maneuvers around town, steering clear of mutual hangouts, mutual friends. It totally killed my social life, but I figured she’d throw my dick in the blender if she saw me. Not my idea of fun.
But I guess time cooled her down. Or avoiding me got boring. Or maybe she just wanted to throw her new boy toy in my face. Either way I found a message from her on my phone. We’re both adults, she’d said. Let’s act our age and practice being civil.
We agreed to meet in a neutral space. There aren’t a lot of those in our tiny town, so we settled on taking a tour of the candy plant. It seemed perfect: public enough we couldn’t fight, boring enough for a short visit; ready-made conversation pieces and, most important, cheap. One of my friends worked security there and let me in gratis whenever I felt like freeloading mountains of processed sugar. Last time I got so sick I couldn’t look at candy corn for weeks without my stomach running circles, though that’s beside the point. Or maybe not: self-control exists for other people, somewhere far, far away from me. But, come on—a candy factory? With big, bright murals that looked straight out of a sixties psychedelic poster and little kids climbing over their parents, begging for sweets? How innocuous can you get?
She showed up looking like I remembered: same smile, same tight jeans that showed the bounce in her ass as she walked, cherry-red lipstick that made her look like a blonde Snow White. Our time apart twisted and shrank back into nothing. She saw me and started over. Stilettos clicked against the pavement. I realized, while trying not to check her out, that she had dressed up for this. When the hell did I turn into someone to impress?
“Hey,” I started. “What’s up?”
“Not much. Did I keep you waiting?”
Only fifteen minutes. That used to drive me nuts about her, always running late. “No, I just got here.”
“Do I get a hug?” We inched together and did a quick embrace, the kind you give coworkers and that one guy whose name you feel bad about forgetting. She smelled good. I wanted to bite her neck, breathe it all in. Maybe we should have waited longer.
“You look good.” I meant it.
“You too. Shall we?” she asked, motioning toward the factory entrance.
I led the way, practically an expert after all the time I’ve spent bumming around, waiting for Gary to get off work. He’s my drinking buddy. I already had passes saying we were allowed to be there, so we could get started right away. Except we were running just late enough to miss the hourly tour.
“Sorry,” Alice said, looking over a list of prohibited behavior posted up on the wall. NO SMOKING. NO CLIMBING INTO VATS. CHILDREN MUST BE ACCOMPANIED BY AN ADULT AT ALL TIMES. “Should we wait for the next one?”
“Fuck that. It’ll take forever.”
“Then what do you want to do?” I heard a slight edge to her voice, some ice within the honey. Like it was my fault she didn’t show on time.
“Let’s just go in and catch up. It won’t be hard to find them.”
“Are you sure?” She cocked an eyebrow.
“Totally. I know where they are.” Famous last words. Inside was a little more complicated than I remembered, and all the big pipes looked the same. I led us through a couple of wrong turns, and we ended up in an area I’d never seen before. Normally I’d turn back and ask for directions, but she was staring at me like she knew this would happen because I always got us lost. Like she was remembering why we split. The logical part of my brain knew that finding a candy tour wouldn’t prove I’m not a fuckup, but try telling me that. I went ahead until we hit a wall.
She rolled her eyes. “Now what?”
“We keep going.” The wall in front had a door in it. I walked up and twisted the handle. “It isn’t locked.”
That’s how we ended up in this big abandoned room, with nice cushy chairs around a huge conference table. I swear she kissed me first. One minute I’m shutting the door, to explore where candy-making action happens, and the next her lips are mashed against mine with her whole body pressed into me. It was pure reaction when I shoved my tongue in her mouth. And when I flipped her on the table. I’d been wet since I first saw her, and now I’m aching so bad I can’t think.