sky, so we’ll be doing this with
headlights on. Luckily, they work fine. In fact, everything seems
to be working fine. The engine
turns over easily, hums like
a beehive, and while the Focus
isn’t exactly a performance car,
it’s got plenty of pep when I hit the gas pedal. Speaking of gas,
“Check it out. The tank is full.”
Which leads to bickering. Syrah takes the lead. We could go all the way to Sac.
Don’t be stupid. Two hours each way?
That’s too far. Her dad will be home.
He never gets home before midnight on Friday. In fact, that’s early for him.
How do you know? You’re not there every Friday. Him and Zelda could get in a fight.
The Suggestion
Makes me pull over onto
the shoulder. “Okay. Change
seats. Let’s go back. I feel like a criminal. Besides, I’m getting hungry, aren’t you?”
You crack me up, says Syrah, exiting the front. You underage drink, you smoke weed and inhale, but driving without a license makes you a criminal? Whatever.
Monica settles in and as we
turn toward home, she says,
Hey. How come you got the car?
What about your boyfriend?
Did he get one, too?
“Will you please stop
calling Gabe my boyfriend?
I have no idea why I got the car, or if he got one, too. Are you in a different time zone?
We found out about this
together, remember?”
Her fingers tiptoe across the seat, to my knee and up my leg, then come to rest on the inner thigh curve. I’m glad he’s not your boyfriend. He’s so not your type.
I Won’t Argue That
Not with our current connection.
I don’t want to quarrel, don’t want
to feel confused, and at this moment I’m totally sure that Monica is my type, so I’m relieved to see the only vehicle parked in our driveway belongs to Syrah.
Monica was right. When Dad and Zelda do fight, his early return can upset our plans. I’m glad tonight doesn’t seem to be one of those times. Of course, it’s early. “You coming in, Syrah? Afraid we’re stuck with frozen pizza rolls.”
Yech. No thanks. Anyway, I promised Dad I’d babysit the twins so he and Marla can go out for their anniversary.
That both relieves me and makes
me a little queasy with anticipation about alone time with Monica.
We grab our stuff out of Syrah’s car, start toward the house. Did you bring your keys? asks Monica. It would suck if your car got stolen the first day.
True, and to be safe, I lock the doors of my 2012 candy-red Ford Focus.
Thinking About Dad
Coming home early
reminds me I’d better
give him a heads-up.
First I click up the furnace.
As always, it’s freezing inside when I get home.
“Get comfy,” I tell Monica, “while I call my dad and tell him about the car.
Otherwise, he’d probably freak out if he saw
it in the driveway.”
Okay. But do we really have to eat pizza rolls?
Is there anything fresh in the ’frigerator?
I can cook, you know.
“Not sure. But my fridge is your fridge. If you find something to whip up, I’ll eat it. I trust you know how.”
Bueno, pero primero . . .
Yes, but first she positions herself so close to me there are barely molecules between us. She lifts up on her toes to match my height, and . . .
I’ve Dreamed About This Kiss
For days.
For weeks.
For months.
And, just maybe, for the entire part of my life that had any clear notion of what a kiss could—or
should—be.
Oh.
My.
Serious.
God.
Our mouths fuse.
Tongues converge.
But there’s more.
So much more.
And, yes, there’s longing, upwelling from places we’ve yet to explore, but that’s not the genesis.
Because the bond between us begins heart to heart.
This, My Third Kiss
Takes my literal breath
away. I so want to tell her I love her, but I know if I do I’ll jinx us, and this duality we’ve merged into.
But Monica doesn’t hesitate to declare, Te amo más que la vida misma. Tú eres mi amiga y mi corazón.
She loves me more than
life itself. I am her friend and her heart. That draws
my smile. “A chef and poet, too. How lucky am I?”
Luck isn’t random.
It’s something you create.
You call your dad and I’ll go see what I can create in the kitchen. I’m starving.
I watch her go, try not
to think too much about
where the rest of this night might lead us. Temptation
is a powerful force. Succumbing to it scares the hell out of me.
It Also Excites Me
Because, as scared as I am that Dad will find out, and try to beat that sex demon out of me, or disown me for it, or both,
the need to embrace this part of myself is escalating.
Lately, my dreams are inhabited by lust-infused images.
Feminine.
Masculine.
Both.
Right. Left.
Up. Down.
Over.
Beneath.
Sometimes I wake to find myself touching the most intimate parts of my body, satiating a hunger so deep, so vital, feeding it is integral to my well-being.
The sensation is incredible, but I could never find the courage
to do it consciously.