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When Nobody's Watching [Dane Stalling & dearestdarling]

October 5th, 1967, clear with storm warning, 78°

I've seen the pen touch your lips, while you were writing, you did it again and again. The tip on the paper for a sentence or two, sometimes just a word, then the other end tapping your lower lip. Once, when Mrs. Stanford walked by you jerked it away as though you had been caught at something shameful.

You're right that those kinds of thoughts are piercing and honest, but sinful? No. No more sinful than being thirsty or hungry or sleepy. No more sinful than being curious.

You'd find my diary boring, mostly vacuum tubes and schematics for door alarms. Sometimes a little more- things I see some nights at the clearing. You'd think those base and tawdry, or would you? I'm no songwriter, Pretty G, but if I were, I'd make a whole album based on the expressions on your face when you write. The pen song and the angry song and the face you make when you're slipping your diary away next to old Pulitzer.

Without panties on the line, why would anyone even try the window? Although you left it unlatched when you snuck out to see what the hippies were up to. Do you hope he returned? I never saw Johnny. I saw you though, climbing down the trellis into the garden. Your coat hooked on a rose thorn and you had to untangle it. I couldn't see your face then, but what a song it would have made.

I wanted to follow you to find out where you went, and maybe I should have. I never would have guessed. I did something else instead- I reversed your path into the garden, up the trellis, into your window. It was warm inside, and dark. I saw the record player, so I knew which bed was Joyce's, and which one was yours. I could have told anyway- there were only books by one bed. I pulled out the one on the end, the photo album. I flipped, watching you grow up in my flashlight beam from toddler to girl to awkward teen to beauty. Something caught my eye though. You were rarely in the center of a snapshot. Always it was someone else- your mother, your sister. You live in the edges of those pictures. You may think it's because you're second prettiest, but that's not it. I took one, from near the back. Last summer by the date written on the back in your handwriting, you at a picnic on Breakfast Branch, everyone in swimsuits, smiling. You, smiling there at the edge in a yellow one piece, a plastic cup in your hand. I'm giving you the picture back, mostly. You're in the middle of the piece I'm keeping, the way I cut it. My coat caught on the roses when I left.

I want to know what you learned, what you saw out by the clearing. Did you see anything you wanted to try? Were you envious? Disgusted? Thrilled? I want to know how that sentence ends, "I hugged the limb between my legs, remembered Johnny and..."

You should tell me. I want to hear it from your own mouth. That picnic spot where Breakfast Branch crosses E. 28th Road. I'll leave an oil lamp out, but it will be dark inside. A midnight picnic, Pretty G. I'll bring the potato salad and the fried chicken, the horseshoes and the lemonade. You only have to bring one thing. The end of that sentence.

R
 
October 7th, 1967

I never thought that after... encountering you, I would have more questions than answers. So many things that I meant to ask, and a good journalist might've brought her notepad and pen, but then it was too dark for them to be of any use anyway.

Even in the dark though... it was probably wrong for me to imagine you with some kind of horrible disfigurement, a more obvious reason for you to lurk and stalk and keep to the shadows, but at least as far as I could tell, you were perfect perfectly normal, my lack of experience with men notwithstanding. R... your voice. You sound nothing like you do here in my diary. When you spoke, when you gasped out my na

If you've known it all along, why didn't you say? I guess it only stood to reason if you knew where I lived, looked through my photos, but somehow I didn't realize. If you were a story I was trying to report on, I'm certain it would've clicked right away. But you've always been something else, from the very beginning. You're a poem, you're a song. You're the taste on my tongue today

Father never knew that I'd taken a midnight excursion, and why would he? A wet bathing suit doesn't draw suspicion the way a wet dress or coordinate would, and the storm provided ample cover for my leaving and returning. I only feel bad that I wasn't able to bring anything to our picnic. You planned, you provided, you taught, you encouraged... and I merely showed up. I hope that maybe I could plan our next outing, if we ever have one. I want to

I feel new and confused and hopeful and somehow broken but in a good way, a great way. I got home late, went to braid my hair before bed and I thought I saw Joyce in the reflection. Lips red and swollen, the mark on my neck, eyes cloudy and dark. That look

I should scold you for stealing my picture Joyce would call it creepy but I kind of like but I don't really want it back. Do you really keep that diary faithfully, R? I notice that you write in mine as regularly as time allows, I don't think you've ever skipped a day. Keep that photo, but I want yesterday's diary entry as a trade. I don't care if it's tent instructions, a map to a campsite... it's you, and after yesterday... I need more, R.

Abigail
 
October 7th, 1967, fog and drizzle, 53°

Abigail.

I've been mouthing your name for a month. I almost greeted you with it yesterday at Woods Grocery but I didn't want to frighten you. Or myself, to be truthful. Some spell is around us, I feel like it will break in daylight.

I'm speaking like a Hare Krishna now. Where's my rational self? Probably pacing around the tent by the river, quoting Chomsky. I have not missed him yet, but I will.

You brought more than you needed to our picnic, and you know I am grateful. Another outing. The idea fascinates me. What subterfuges are you capable of, beautiful Abigail? I have no doubt you would be both more subtle and more imaginative than your sister.

I'd trade my picture for what your mirror saw, but not for anything less.

You are justified in asking for a diary page, but I have to say that I rejected your idea over and over in my mind. I am still of two minds about it and if it's not slipped into our book when you read this, it's because of my own fear, not because I don't believe I owe it to you.

R

----

10/6/67

Can't believe she came. Lantern blew out almost as soon as she got there. Angels in storms. How can anyone expect that? She shivered, stood outside the tent for a full minute before she came in. Her foot first, not her head. She shivered. Glad for the extra blanket. Hot chocolate would have been better than wine, but only thinking of that now.

Kept my arms around her when I wrapped her in the blanket, she shook into me. Not a thing to forget soon. There was a lot not to forget. She's all courage, that girl, she might shake, but she moves forward, out of her room into a storm in just that yellow swimsuit. She must have looked like a floating flame under street lights. Should have watched instead of hunkering in the tent. The rain was deafening. But she came.

Her foot first, before I even spoke. Sorry about the weather, but at least there aren't ants. I've got cheese and wine and French bread. She put her glasses in the picnic basket.

Leaned back to back and talked about it all, comfortable. Didn't tell me the end of her sentence. I uncorked and passed her the bottle. Forgot her house was probably temperance city but she sipped, shivered. She's quick. Quicker than me in a conversation anyway, I let it be quiet too long before answering. Turned my head same time she did and touched cheeks, hers cool, damp, soft against mine. I felt something break, that thin sheet of glass between us shattered. Her hair stuck to my cheek when I turned to her, missed her lips by a little. Dark. Darker than the other night. Kissing was a revelation, all hunger, a girl who was eating her first chocolate. She pressed in too hard but never hard enough. Slipped hands under the blanket, over her breasts but she grabbed my wrists, held them, pressed her neck to my lips and asked. Marked her but just once. I might have sucked her blood for more, but she wanted to try something.

Shaking, that girl, so much courage. Wondered where to put my hands I was kneeling she fished me out and lightning hit close, made us both jump and would have laughed but she had a grip on my hard and I couldn't. Saw her there in the flash, for that moment, yellow suit, hair shiny wet, both hands touching me, all ten fingers making trails. Lips open. She tried it all, licks, kisses, teeth. I held the center pole with one hand and her head with the other, showed her how, but didn't need to much. I moaned. Not like me, all held in and closed. She opened me up, so curious and eager to play. She sucked groans out of me, I laid back, my head next to the basket and she scrambled around. Didn't want me to get away, climbed on top of me to pin me down. Swallowed me up.

Don't think it occurred to her there was a name for it, that people did it at all, so when I ran my thumb over that tight place in her suit she jumped like lightning had struck again. Squealed, all muffled with me and I'd have tried to get my tongue on her again but I couldn't reach. Just kept my thumb pressing, slow. She came just before I did. Brave girl. Said Abigail I was so opened up. I said it ten times maybe until she turned around and kissed me. Missed my mouth at first we laughed I tasted me for the first time.

Should have told her that. Should tell her.
 


October 8th, 1967

You were wrong again, R. Your diary is anything but boring. Knowing you, you were probably watching me as I read-- even knowing that, I couldn't help but shiver as I read it. I still can't believe...

You know, I had never tasted wine before. I've had the opportunity, family dinners and New Year's and other things like that, but I've never been tempted to. I liked the nod of approval from Father when I would decline it; ladies don't drink, they thank you graciously and keep their wits about them. It tasted sort of sour and dry, but I liked it. After we passed it back and forth, it started tasting sweeter but maybe that was you

I wish like anything that I had looked when the lightning struck, but maybe you won't hold it against me that I was very preoccupied with other things. I still can't quite accept that it happened... me. You and I. That it wasn't Joyce in the rain with a stranger. That I couldn't pick you out of a crowd, but I would know your nose anywhere

I didn't know that you could just... press that place and... All you did was press and press and press and somehow I came undone from it, and I wasn't even there to... I mean, that wasn't the intent of my venture. I didn't realize that it was so easy, and how unfair it is that you should have better command over my body than I do myself. I'm determined to correct this.

Another outing. Yes. I had something in mind for the end of the month, but that's so, so long from now and I don't think I can wait that long, can you? I can't believe I'm even suggesting this... but there's a place that we both visit often, a quiet place, with at least more than one little nook or two that we could

Of course it's probably better to wait. And maybe I should make you, Joyce calls it playing coy. What do you call what I did to you? Joyce had always said it was kind of a chore but you were incredible, even if I couldn't see a thing that I was doing. Joyce'll be back in a few days for my birthday. No party as usual, just a small dinner at home.

When is your birthday, R? And who do you celebrate with? It's probably silly but... I don't like the idea of you being so solitary. I'm thinking of the way you laugh and I can't help but smile at the memory, so warm and inviting. You should do that more. I have a sneaking suspicion that you aren't really meant to be a loner, like you claim.

Abigail

 
October 9th, 1967, clear, 39°

Watching you shiver is a poor substitute to having you shiver against me. I did watch and my hands itched to take that page out of your hand. I'm glad I didn't have an opportunity to do that though. It would have been rude, and now that I know you found it, well, not boring, I'm glad you have it now.

Father's approval. What does being a lady mean, anyway? I know it's a set of social norms, some number of behaviors, or rather, inhibitions, that qualify a woman for a particular status. What's the status worth, though? Say Joyce's hippies actually bring down The Man someday? What will it mean to have been a lady then? Even if they don't, wine is still good. Talking back to back, listening to rain, our touching and tasting- those were good. Very, very good. Deliciously unladylike.

It was just us. No made up Joyce, no strung out Johnny. Me and you and I like it that her name never came up in our conversation. You are much more interesting than she is, and I know you think you're the boring one but you fascinate me in every way. The things you know are as interesting as the things you don't know. How charming it is that you called your climax "coming undone." I want to create a whole language of pleasure with you.

Do you know what I would give to watch you discover how to command your body? I would memorize every touch and pinch of it. Every look on your face. The idea is intoxicating.

The Library, yes. The place we've always met, sitting in the same chair night after day, putting down our story offset by hours. I can show you the Library in a way you've never seen it before, but that's another adventure for another time.

Joyce's coy is only a power game. Absence makes the loins grow fonder and all that. Or it would if there were not willing substitutes rocking the Caddy's squeaky springs on a steady basis.

Maybe you will ask someday, so I want you to know now that there is no substitute for you. I have no alternative, no second string. Not for a long time. Years. Absence makes me burn, Abigail. I will burn until Halloween if you decide that, but what I want is more of you.

There are names for everything we did, but they are crude, unsuited to our stormy picnic. I will not teach you those words, I can't imagine them coming out of your mouth. We kissed, of course, thoroughly. What you did I will let you name because you are inventing it yourself to my infinite delight. What I did I will call pressing, because we have already agreed and it is a wonderful and pleasant mystery to perform such a feat on a journalist. We became undone, one after the other. I don't care what anyone else has named. We have an opportunity to invent, name, perfect everything we find to do.

Your birthday was in the church directory. I have an idea for a present, but it isn't very good, and I think your mother doesn't know to invite me for your celebration dinner. Maybe I can have dessert at your house when the others are asleep. A new dish for us to name.

I was as close to a leapyear child as can be. It makes me laugh sometimes.

R

P.S. I took down the tent once it dried out yesterday and packed it away. There's only a slightly flatter square of grass there now, where we pressed it down. By tomorrow there will be no sign that we were there at all. I will not forget as quickly as the grass. I will not forget at all.
 

October 10th, 1967

There are no February or early March birthdays in that directory that belong to an R, which means... which means either you don't go to church, or maybe you're not R, the same way I'm not G. But I'll let you keep your mysteries, at least for now. I'm certain that I could've asked anything I wanted in that tent, but I want you to tell me in your own time, and with more than a reluctant willingness.

For curiosity's sake, I want to ask Joyce what those things are called, but then she would want to know why. She would accuse me of having a boyfriend. Are you So maybe I won't ask her then, maybe we can come up with names all our own. Is it some kind of perversion for me to admit that I liked what I did there, in the tent? At first it was meant to be more of a thank you, and maybe to simply satisfy my curiosity about the act, the... the tasting. Does that sound right? You tasted like nothing and you smelled like heat. The way your legs shook before you finally laid back made me feel hungry. I feel hungry now.

Who is this girl that talks so freely about acts that I've been taught to think are depraved? I'm not sure, but I like being her, she's more me than the Abigail that came before her. I still feel broken, but... the pieces aren't ruined remains, they're materials to make something new. I love being new with you, and learning, and creating. Father says I'm always smirking when I'm doing my chores, ironing, sweeping. Of course I'm not really there, I'm with you in the stacks, making lo more vocabulary words with you.

You wanted to... watch me I tried doing what you did...pressing. Last night beneath my blanket. I thought maybe it might be one of my last chances before Joyce will come home and my privacy would be forfeited. I pressed. I've... tried before, my hand has been drawn to that secret place, but with the example you provided, I thought maybe this time could be different. I kept pressing. I felt as though I were close sometimes to touching that exact place, that magic spot your thumb knows so well, but I came up short. I stopped pressing and gave up in a huff. How is it that you know me better than I do, R? Don't answer that, I don't like the thought of you with somebody else

I realized that I was completely blind as I fumbled and searched, no idea what I was touching, and that the man who visited me in the dark, the one with that charming nose, had seen in detail what I had never dared to glance at. Two Christmases ago, Father gave Joyce and I both pocket mirrors with pretty, painted cases. Mine has sat untouched on my dresser top since the day after I opened it. I thought the delicate flowers on the outside of it were much easier on the eyes than anything on the inside could be.

My hands were shaking as I opened it for the first time. I looked at myself and my face was bright red, but I forged onward and lay back on my bed with it, considering it. I felt afraid, but why? I could only see myself in it. It rested on my belly as I slid my panties down, lifted my skirt slightly, and I shivered and I thought of abandoning the entire project. I thought I heard something against the trellis outside, but the wind picked up and I laughed at how nervous I was, to see myself for the first time.

Of course, you're probably quite familiar with a woman's anatomy, so none of my findings would interest you much. Despite what you say, I'm under no impression that I'm the only girl that you see. You see everything, it seems like. I don't know that I'm more interesting than Joyce, but then it was my photo that you

Even with the visual aid, the pressing, I still couldn't do it. Maybe I need a

Maybe I need a lesson.

Abigail
 
October 13th, 1967, clear, 51°

I only go to church to see what you're wearing. Now I'll watch to see if you smirk there too, when Deacon Howard stretches the announcements out to fifteen minutes. You'll be watching every man's hands now. Now you hate the cold because of gloves.

You didn't need a visual aid or a lesson. You needed a mental picture like we made in the tent. Like we made an hour ago. You're cool under pressure, Beautiful Abigail, and very quiet when you need to be. I stole your mirror. I will return it unopened the next time we are close enough to touch. What it saw last is precious and I want to hold it for a while.

I know I gave you a present, but it was only a thing. I'll give you something that costs me more, and which I hope you will appreciate in a more thorough way.

I hope your birthday was memorable. I will not forget it.

R

----

10/13/67

Didn't envy Johnny's easies for the first time. Watched him and Joyce drive away, left tail light out on his Caddy. Crossed the street when they turned the corner and climbed. Abigail was still in her dinner dress. First time I've touched her in day clothes.

Was supposed to be giving a lesson but truthfully, just wanted to feel her again. Her neck smells faintly of soap. Wanted to find that bar of soap, but the bathroom is as inaccessible to me as the moon.

She waited, dressed in the dark. Don't know why, or how with sister stirring. Gave her the gift, but it was only a small thing. A black pair to keep the red company. She only seems to want to turn rocks over and see what comes crawling out of me. Curious with her to see what crawls out.

Crawled behind her and leaned against the wall, her leaning against my chest. We talked, comfortable like before. I could answer more quickly this time. Had my arms around her, smelled her neck. Soap and skin. Maybe another fragrance, but not one I cared about.

She asked me to teach her and wasn't sure how. Showed instead. Grateful to L for showing me way back.

Pressing may have been too narrow a description, but love that we call it that. Pressed, stroked, circled, my hand over her panties, but under her dress. Talked quiet, about her spine against my chest, about how it thrilled when she squirmed her hand around behind her and found my hard. She squeezed, squirmed it out again.

She has a small lamp by her bed for reading at night. Turned it on it threw a circle of light as big as a book, but not much more into her lap. Made me jump a little, but she wasn't looking for my face. She took both of my hands, looked at them close under the light. She bit my thumb and kissed my left palm, then my right.

Said she wanted to see where the words came from. Then she pulled her panties off. A white blur onto the floor and asked me to press again. I slicked my index finger across her heat and touched light where her petals met in a pearl.

Jumped like lightning and her head tipped back on my shoulder. Said to press, but I took her hand, licked her fingers and slicked over her pearl with them. Said this is how. Here, and here, and anywhere that makes you jump.

Let go after a while. Don't stop I said and she didn't. Came undone right there, light in her lap, her back against me. Was hard and sweet against her backside, moving had me almost frothing. Thought she might taste again, but she wanted to see how I did it. She knelt on the floor, I pulled them down and she laid her head on my thigh, three inches from me. Watched close, asked where my pearl was. Seemed disappointed there wasn't an easy little spot, but watched. Thought I would feel embarrassed, but felt something else. Adored, maybe. Admired. I could feel her breath on me she was so close and it wasn't long before I was undone. She clung to me, cheek on thigh as I shook. Glad I didn't get any in her hair. Pretty for her party, pretty for me.

Learn anything I said she made a mysterious face. Not enough.

Turned the light off and curled with her on her bed until we heard the Caddy. Stayed back in the dark behind her, hard in spite of myself. Had to wait for Joyce to sleep to leave, but waited happy, soap and skin, my hand over her breast, resting mostly.
 

October 15th, 1967

I thought that I bit you hard enough that it would leave a telling mark, but I’ve seen no men in the library with my teeth imprinted on them. Twenty minutes to close here, and I’ve been here nearly all day and watched for you, but no luck. I could try harder, R, we both know I could. You’re careful, but not so much that you would be impossible to find.

My mother always taught us to write thank you cards for every gift that we receive, but as I have no forwarding address for you, this will have to do. The best gift you gave me is the smile I’m wearing today. It pairs well with the black, which I’m also wearing. I woke early this morning and tried them on, imagined them for a moment on the floor with the white ones we discarded yesterday. Just those panties and this smile that I can’t quit and don’t want to, and I admired them both in the mirror for a long moment. Mama nearly came barging in and I had to holler that I was feeling sick and push back against the door to stop her from entering. It wasn’t exactly a lie either, I do feel sick, but I like the illness. Lustsick maybe, dazy and prone to daydreaming. Take two curious fingers and call back in the morning.

I’ll never, ever forget this birthday. Twenty-four now, and still unmarried (as I’m frequently reminded). The only reason I would even consider it would be so that perhaps I could be afforded some privacy for once. I could have my own bedroom but Father insists on the study that he never uses. If I had my own room, R… you could visit me as often as we wanted. I suppose it isn’t quite my lack of privacy that bothers me, but who is disrupting it. You’re my very welcome invader. I’m not sure my hapless husband would agree to our midnight visits, but then that would require even finding a man willing first. To shop around at the paper would further confirm their suspicion that I’m only working there to find a man— every one of my predecessors tried that tactic to varying success, and until I earn that byline, I’m no better.

It’s easier to pretend that I’m some wallflower than to come to terms with the truth, that I don’t fit so easily into any category, and could quite possibly be something new entirely… I always thought I was simply shy, as I’ve been told since maybe birth, but would a shy girl go out in a thunderstorm and meet some randy stranger? Or any thing that we dare to do? Usually when I correct rewrite Hopkins’ articles, he offers me candy from a tin on his desk. I’ve always just politely accepted, a little humiliated, feeling like a child that got a good grade on her first book report.

Today was the first day that I declined, and went further and asked again for my chance at an article in my own right, and no Miss Manners drivel. I haven’t dared to ask in months. He looked like I had bit him, said to wait until spring when there would be fewer stories to run in the slump after the holidays. I told him I would quit, and what’s more, that I would out him as a fraud to all of his colleagues. I'm a nobody, sure, but I have a paper trail a mile wide. He knows it and he's giving me one chance to knock his socks off and he offered me a promotion-- as well as my fact checking here at the library, I'm now officially a copy editor as well, and that came with a pay boost. A pay boost that could, with careful savings, be just enough to rent some small apartment.

I mention all of this because in no small way, you've contributed to this. I thought my new self was only prevalent in my inner thoughts and my meetings with you, but I find New Abigail spilling into other places now, hungrier and bolder than I ever had been.

I've uncrossed my legs exactly three times now, wondering if you were here to see it. I'm thinking of your voice, how dark it sounds with no face to match it, but not unpleasantly so. I like that you take your time to answer me. I like that every word is measured and carefully chosen for me like these pan. You're a careful man, and in some strange way, I feel handpicked by you and that's... it feels like an honor sometimes.

I have signed up to chaperone that Halloween dance, so I'm not sure that I can meet that night. Of course, last time I checked, that sign up sheet did need a few more names. I'll watch for yours, even though I know you're just as likely to appear without an invitation. That does seem more your style.

Abigail

P.S. What do you mean... frothing?
 
October 16th, 1967, clear, 53°

Are we strangers, Abigail? You know more of my thoughts than anyone alive. The things you know, and, yes, the things you guess far outweigh what you don't know. You have had your skin against mine at my most vulnerable. You know my taste, my smell, my voice when I cannot keep from moaning. We are not strangers. You have made me burn. I have confessed secrets to you I would have buried, but you make them alive and free. I wonder how you've done it. There are married couples in this town that know less about each other.

There are still two red marks on my thumb. I have pressed it to my lips many times in the last two days, unconsciously. When I touch my tongue to the marks I cannot taste you any more, but I can taste your absence. You make my mouth water. Appetizer. When you made yourself come undone, my arms around you, I felt whipped into a frenzy, like you could touch me and I would foam over like champagne. Frothing.

My taste is for you, Abigail. Not cuckolding some poor milk toast that would try to make you into your mother, or mine. You think now that you wouldn't invite the pool boy in for lemonade, but what will three years married to necktie Dick do?

I would invade anyway.

Congratulations on your promotion. I think old Hopkins articles have a little more bite than they used to. Maybe it's my imagination, but he's getting soft on the establishment, sneaking a progressive idea in there from time to time. He's going to have to watch his step if he doesn't want McCarthy's ghost haunting him.

What's this article you're going to write then? The dangers of secret correspondences? The corrupting influence of the hippies? You could find me, the night time stalker, make the Hinckley mothers start a crime watch. But Kitty Genovese won't happen here. This isn't Queens.

A place of your own though. It makes me want to see you in my doorway, by the light of my refrigerator, by candle. My apartment smells like old wood, paint, burnt toast, brass lock cores, lustsickness. I soaked the label off a bottle of wine. I wasn't sure why at the time, but it may be that this naming we are doing needs unlabeling first. I think it would be honest to tell Joyce you don't have a boyfriend if your smirks fool her less than your father. I am both more and less than that. Maybe we are lovers, less than lovers, more than. I will save the wine for us. What we are is better than what we call ourselves.

Handpicking sounds like a name for something we haven't tried yet. I want to invent a touch for that word. Yes, I watched. You blushed for a half minute before uncrossing your legs each time. Beautiful and brave, Abigail. Black suits you. I wonder what else will be creeping into the rest of your life.

It would be very civic minded of me to sign up for the dance too, wouldn't it? I will likely be there in any event. My costume is all picked out for me.

R

P.S. I got you a very early housewarming gift. You'll find it under the clothesline. The nursery says they're easy to take care of, but I chose it because the color reminds me of the picture in your mirror.
 
October 19th, 1967

You’re the only person that calls me Abigail. Even my own name isn’t really mine, it’s something that Joyce bestowed upon me, too many syllables for her to manage as a toddler and then it stuck. But I like to hear you say it, see you write it. And if I ever married, well, then I would be Mrs. Husband’s Name and I’d lose it again, wouldn’t I? I want to be Abigail for a while, if only here and in the dark.

I’m not looking for a man, R, not now and maybe not ever. A man found me though, a stranger to the unsuspecting eye— really, a stranger to mine, but… anyway, the whole idea of marriage is too invasive and presumptuous for me. I’d be hard pressed to find someone who didn’t expect me to wait on him, hand him the clicker, and simper and coo at every stupid thing he said.

You're not a boyfriend. A boyfriend brings flowers, keeps his girlfriend's photo to look at while she's away, writes her love letters You take a boyfriend to dinner, to your parents' home, to movies and dances... If I wanted one, Joyce could probably provide some lesser that couldn't hope to catch her attention, one that wouldn't mind the bargain bin sister. I used to think I wasn't very interested in boys and that the spinster life didn't sound that bad... now I'm thinking that it isn't men I dislike, but modern courting rituals. So brash, unsubtle, no nuance to it. And it doesn't help that there aren't any many men of substance here, either.

If you want to read my article, renew your subscription to the Bee. I intend to get paid for those words. I'll be happy to give you other ones for free.

The flowers are lovely. Joyce is convinced I have some secret admirer now, and that nearly seems to fit. I tried to explain it away, insist that I bought them myself, but she's more intuitive than she lets on. I blushed as pink as the blooms and she noticed, smiled slyly, continued on with breakfast. Smirked around her spoon. I'll have to be more careful from now on.

She gave me a bottle of perfume for my birthday, from a department store in the city. Chanel no. 22. The bottle is heavy and the scent is heady and cloying. I'd spritz the page like a woman is supposed to, but I don't want you to suffocate. Your flowers smell much better, so I'll press one into the page instead.

Abigail
 
October 20th, 1967, clear, 48°

If I told you I buy my newspapers at the vending box outside the courthouse would you watch? Try to catch my face? There's a picture of me under the last newspaper in that box along with a dime so you don't have to pay for your own paper. Hurry though, it would be a shame if someone else ended up with it. I am the one on the right.

I haunt the library, Abigail. I can always read yesterday's paper for free. I only buy one if it has your words. I can hear you speak when I read. Hopkins is only your mask now, just a thin shell between you and the world. What would you say to Hinckley, to the whole of Missouri if you had that voice you're chasing?

That question wakes me up sometimes. I sit up, bleary in bed, hard like you've seen me, but from sleep, from dreaming. You could hurt me, but you won't. Is there more than that? Maybe it's only a beginning, but this has been turning in my mind. I want it this way. Isn't it better to hold weapons and choose not to use them than to wonder what we would do if we were armed?

You have formidable weapons for the bargain bin girl. Maybe this more than anything is what fascinates me about you. How you insist on propping your sister up as though she is superior to you in some, in any way. But she poses no danger to anyone. Not to Johnny, not to you, not to me. You have teeth. My thumb knows it, and I thought of it when they scraped the head of my cock when lightning struck. I think of that, and what came before, and after.

I want more than glimpses of your panties from across the room. More than lightning flashes. I want to be saturated with you, soaked deeper than my skin with your own scent, your breath, your heat. The distance between us is of my making and I repent of it ten times every day. Maybe one morning you will open your eyes to my face. But then I think that you are a creature of questions, not answers. I could run out of questions for you, become a certainty and then what? You would have to find your own questions. Can you do that? Keep finding questions?

I'm no bargain shopper, Abigail. My shoes are not fancy, but they are the best money can buy. I won't wear them out climbing trellises or tiptoeing through gardens.

R

P.S. Already tearing the petals off flowers? He handpicks me... he handpicks me not...
I'll find you on Halloween night. You can hide your face, but I know the set of your spine, the turn of your head when you feel my eyes.
 


October 24th, 1967

That was cute, that trick that you thought you had pulled on me. I have no proof that this is you and not any random kid off the street, another photo you swiped from someone else's family album. Two girls and it could've been from mine. If you want me to see you, give me another photo with some sure sign that it's you. Maybe the day's paper, if you don't mind breaking from your cheapskate way. Otherwise I don't think I'll be satisfied.

You speak in riddles, R, and you sound a bit distressed. I don't know what to make of you. Some days I think you dangle yourself in front of me and some nights, you do quite litera but if it were as simple as wanting me to meet you, I know you could emerge from whatever shadows you're lurking in and greet me. So that can't be what you want, for me to know you completely... I've noticed a delicacy about you, a fragile shell. You have to break eggs to make an omelette, R. Do you ever make them in that lonely apartment?

I went on a walk last night; you might know if you were watching. I liked to pretend that you were walking a similar route, maybe too far ahead for me to see you, and doubling back every so often to make sure I hadn't lost the way. I passed by the Bannings' and thought I heard you chuckle in the dark, warm and knowledgeable. Tracing your footsteps. It was too chilly to go on to Breakfast Branch, and I knew you weren't likely to be waiting for me there. You're busy at night, I've noticed. You write me when the sun can't lend its warmth and the temperature drops.

If I'm a creature of questions, who better to spend my time with than you? Omnipotent almost, I have chills sometimes when I think that you could be nearby, just on the other side of a bookshelf, in the pew behind me, in the next line at the grocery with your bread for toasting. You see everything and you seem to infer more. You're not always right though, and I've always been quick to correct you, but now I'm more tempted to let you wonder. What will you do without the answers?

Abigail

P. S. Apologies for my late reply. Maybe it was just my imagination, but the book smelled of singe when I opened it. Don't burn too hot, R. There's a dial on that toaster and a date to look forward to.

P. P. S. New Abigail would thank

P. P. P. S. I thought of you and your dark face and your eyes last night and came undone again. In my mind they're deep set and soulful and so brown that they're nearly black. I didn't need to lick my fingers as you taught, and it was delicious.
 
October 27th, 1967, light clouds, 36°

Tarzan was always the better half of a Saturday afternoon double feature and Aunt Lorraine made us matching leopardskin swimsuits. Not proof, I know, and it was swiped from a family album, but it's one that I own.

Riddles are our language, Abigail. Would you have us writing declarative sentences now? Using the inverted pyramid method of journalistic writing?

EGGS SAFE?

Staff Writer

HINCKLEY - Witnesses today report that an unknown man has been refusing to break eggs...

Every shell hurts and dulls. You can shatter them whenever you want. I believe it would take you very little to walk up and greet me yourself. Sometimes I feel you hunting me, but it seems that you don't want to break that particular egg either. All it would take is the turn of a lamp at the right moment, waiting a little longer at the library, coming in a little earlier. Omelettes are off the menu and we'll have to be content with toasted cheese. Maybe you will say that I am wrong, or let me wonder. Rattle that saber, Abigail. I love the sound of it. You could draw blood and I would still trust your teeth.

You know it hurts to know I missed your walk. I would have slid up next to you and escorted you to the Bannings' porch swing. Maybe we would have sat in the dark and whispered confessions to each other. Maybe we would have breathed. That's not what would have happened. You have a long coat and I have a tremendous thirst for you. You would have been tonguepicked most thoroughly. Will you slow by their house next time you pass it, and listen for footsteps? If you hear them will you turn to look or hold your eyes steady ahead, keeping your questions precious?

Dodging and burning. That's me next to you, behind you, in front of you, ravenous. My face is burned in this
Hp6P0o6.jpg
I hope it's more satisfactory than the last. If you had just turned yesterday afternoon we could have shared wine, and, no doubt, been kicked out of the library for our laughing.

It's no use telling me not to burn too hot. Four days and we'll set something alight. I want you before then though. I will make you no promises because I see you burn too sometimes. I envy your fingers their travels.

R
 
October 29th, 1967

I've attracted a pest at work, Dexter in bookkeeping. His father is a friend of my father. From what I can guess, his father and mine got to talking and think that we would make a great pair. I had the misfortune of talking to him a few times in passing-- he's worse than the others somehow, so painfully awkward that he makes my teeth hurt. Still, he persists, as though he doesn't see me for what I am and thinks that I'm so desperate for company that I would settle for a man that can barely string a sentence together and bites his nails so close to the quick that they sometimes bleed. When he approaches the coffee station, everyone else makes a quick escape.

Before I could refuse outright, this little playdate that my father and Mr. Meltose had cooked up was nearly underway. Dexter was scheduled to pick me up at seven sharp for dinner, pencilled neatly into my appointments in handwriting that looked suspiciously like my mother’s. Not two months ago I would’ve accepted my lot, braced myself for a terrible evening but leave without much of a fuss. This time I wasn’t going without a proper bribe. One semester at the junior college next semester, paid in full. I think my father is hoping against hope that if I decide to marry, I’ll forget those silly journalist dreams, but the joke is on him. I think I’ve discovered a new skill in negotiating.

Carnations that looked picked over and a crooked bowtie, fifteen minutes late. He drives a beater but the inside is clean, at least, and it’s looked after. Told me I look pretty, nervously, and it’s silly but for a moment I wondered if he could possibly be… those nails though, dead giveaway. And no lingering reminder of my teeth on his thumbs, which twitched annoyingly ever so often. And pretty is such a common word anyway, but it’s funny how something like a little word like that or the scent of char can make me a little lustsick. He wasn’t much to look at, but then I’ve learned that that’s hardly necessary to have some fun— looking, I mean, and I’m a novice in the art of seduction… but why waste an evening? I’ve heard Father discussing opportunity cost at the dinner table with my mother, that time is money and therefore it shouldn’t be wasted. With the tuition, I was double-dipping a little, but who said I couldn’t have my cake and eat it too?

Dexter seemed determined to stick to the approved outing, but a hand on his thigh convinced him alright. He sounded ten years younger and asked me where to drive, called me ma’am. He’s a funny guy, that’s for certain, with eyes too bright like our neighbor’s pomeranian. Yippy. He was making me nervous, to tell the truth, but I kept my hand just above his knee anyway. Amazing what just that does… his slacks were a bit too tight for him and he let on much more than I think he would’ve liked. I didn’t think it would be so simple.

Likely you’ve heard of that bridge just outside of Allandale that’s supposed to be haunted, where kids more popular than I could ever hope to be went to scare each other and burn that adrenaline in less than wholesome ways. I had never been, no one to go with, but I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. The trees were dark and the twisted trunks were vaguely shaped like tortured souls, or so I let myself believe. I affected a tremble, allowed myself a little scream when a raccoon’s eyes flashed at us in the dark, and he reached for my hand, the gentleman. Held it clasped against his thigh though; he's selfish too. I'm not a great actress by any means-- I don't see much of a difference between acting and lying and I'm dreadful at that too-- but he wanted to believe it. "You know, I've never been alone with a girl before." I wondered if I was this painfully green. Am still, maybe. "Gee... I guess I've never been alone with a guy before." Fingers of my other hand crossed, hidden in my wool skirt. I had to kiss him, and he tasted like limeaid and that cleanness that baby carrots can have, like boy.

I had to lead, but I think it was good for me. It would've been tempting to think of my sister and what she would do, but he hadn't asked to go out with Joyce possibly not with me either, but I'm what he got. No lingering glances in an English moor or manor but sometimes we make do. No Johnny either but eager to learn.

I did worry a little over what he might say at the paper the next day, but his lack of social status turned out to work in my favor. Besides, who would believe that icy Gale would slip and slide poor Dex's co He'd be laughed out if he ever tried to brag, secret safe.

Abigail

P.S. The dance ends at 10 o'clock but if you're willing, we could linger a bit after. I'm being trusted with a key to the gymnasium, and I'd be honored to give you your own private, spooky tour. Let me know... The lights will be off.
 
October 30th, 1967, steady rain, 42°

I hope you Even I wouldn't have You're making good progr progress. I'm actually somewhat impressed. You're pretty, G, and there's some power to that.

Normally rain doesn't get me down. I usually like the limited field of view, the way that what's close is all I can see. I don't know what it is today. I spent an hour staring at the space between my dresser and my closet door by the light of the television. I don't remember what I ate, but I must have eaten because I'm not hungry now. I don't think I've ever been this thirsty.

I must admit I expected to be the first to fog car windows with you. Maybe I over underestimated you and the way you've been changing. For the better, of course, I can't deny that. Obviously. Just I guess you have a strange way of getting rid of pests. Give flies a little more honey to make them go away.

Dexter. I remember him. He lived a few blocks over when I was in high school. His sister was Sookie. I don't remember what her actual name was. Sue maybe. We'd hang out in the park in a crowd sometimes and she'd be there on the edges. She'd take a drag on my cigarette sometimes, left red on it and when I touched my lips to the same place I thought about her. She had a sad smile. Dexter would be by himself over at the sandbox, digging trenches with a tree branch. At least she had the wherewithal to get out and head for San Francisco and not play dress up with the hippies in the clearing.

Such a dutiful date. I bet he was eager to learn, but what state did he leave you in? Crossed fingers or not, you're not icy. Not now.

Abigail. Do you write your name any more? I see the shell of your ear whenever I write it. I don't know why, it makes no sense but there it is. The shape of your name and the shape of your ear are entwined in my mind.

I am not easily spooked, but a tour with you might cheer me up a little. Normally rain doesn't get me down.

R
 
October 31st, 1967

R,

The dates that avoid the front door are the ones I look forward to, you should know, but my father isn't likely to approve of them. A pest is still a pest, sticky or not, and baby carrots do nothing for m What state did he leave me in? Missouri, misery; why does it matter, R? He didn't reciprocate, if that's what you're asking. If I ever see the inside of the car I never knew you had, mayb

I thought that it could be fun to explore it, this strange power that you've unlocked in me, but the novelty was short-lived. Until my father can afford for me to go on another date, poor Dex will just have to pine for me. Admittedly, I didn't think that one through very far. He left the most clumsy, embarrassing note on my desk this morning, asking me to lunch. I pretended I didn't see it and skipped here instead, but you must've satisfied that thirst because I see no lonesome patron with a bottle ready to share. Tell me you didn't drink it all on your own, R, unless you have something stronger for tonight.

I only write my name for you. Even at the bottom of a letter, and just once, it feels like I'm indulging in something decadent.

Abigail

P.S. You never told me what costume you thought to wear, and I'm likely not in a position to make requests, but if I get to see even a part of you... I'd love to know what your smile is like.
 

Hinckley High School
Official Incident Report​


Date of report: 10/31/1967

Name: Abigail A. Walcott

Position: Volunteer chaperone

Description of incident:
Concerning the events of October 31st in the gymnasium. At approximately 10:15PM, I was on my final walk through of the facility when I saw that the south door of the gymnasium was unlocked, the padlock and chain on the ground. The lights of the building had shut off ten minutes prior, and so I used the provided flashlight. An empty wine bottle lay on ground, lipstick on the neck.



First Aid administered: No


For office use only
 
November 2nd, 1967

You should know that they found your pen knife, those red panties, and the ghastly sheet that you cut from my body with all the decorum of a magician unveiling his most marvelous illusion yet. Admittedly, it seems that it was mostly me that left so many things behind in that storage room, but your knife did complicate things. I was made to write an incident report of my 'discoveries', not one word of it an actual revelation I was made aware of except that we share a middle initial. The Hinckley Police Department is now in possession of that monogrammed knife, I'm sorry to say, but at least they have the best, red lacy company in that zippered bag. I can't imagine that case will ever be solved-- no blood on the knife, no sign of struggle, no witnesses and no indication that force was used to enter that locked equipment closet, which does raise some interesting questions.

Questions that one junior reporter raised in today's Bee, if you've kept up to date on your news like a good, socially-conscious citizen. There is a dangerous, masked, formally-knife-wielding man out there that has not been caught. I would be cautious if I were you, R. He has a thing for ghosts.

Abigail
 
November 3, 1967 38°, Steady Rain

You share a middle initial with my grandfather, at least, so there’s a mystery solved for our junior reporter. I will miss the corkscrew on that knife though. It’s not easy to find one that doesn’t snag on the inside of a wine lover’s pocket.

Seems the lovers got away, breathless and giggling. Were you satisfied with that smile or was it too fleeting? I guess I’m better at being a cat burglar than pretending to be one. I’m keeping the mask.

Those red panties. They looked better on you than they did on the stack of tumbling mats, and you looked better without them. I’ve burned since then, Abigail. I did not get to plunder you the way you wanted when you whispered to me next to the punch bowl. The sound of your breathing as I pulled the blade through that sheet.

Weren’t the Young Citizens Brigade supposed to be monitoring that punch bowl for tampering instead of checking doors and windows? I know you’re wondering where the key came from. A reporter of your acuity will find the answer eventually, of course.

The Bee article is a great coup for you, I’m sure. Old Hopkins is probably just realizing that he’s going to lose his ghost writer. It’s just a matter of time. He’s also missing the extra fifth of Scotch from his bottom drawer. Poor man’s haunted by more than one spook, but who can he tell?

There was a total solar eclipse last night but only people on the other side of the world could see it. I’m not dissapointed about missing that, though.

R
 

November 4th, 1967

I was satisfied with that smile, if you mean the one just below what your mask hid from me. I'm glad we could do something about the mood that my da the rain put you in. I've heard it'll be a wet, rainy fall... maybe more outings are in order. To keep the blues at bay, I mean.

People are asking questions. For once, I'm trying to put out fires rather than start them, but only so much can be explained away. Maybe I veered too sensational in my article... maybe it shouldn't have been written. Deputy Harris stopped by after work yesterday to ask me some questions about my... findings. I was careful to keep us safe, to not reveal anything more than what any bystander would've come across at the scene of the crime and offer a bit of misleading conjecture. No victim sought any help, medical or otherwise, so who's to say it wasn't two teens having a bit of fun? High on the devil's lettuce and engaging in risky behavior? All the best lies have seeds of truth in them. I didn't attend dances when I was in school-- did you? How did this one compare?

A secret that you'll probably delight in... my heart was racing as I was interviewed, and not because I was nervous. I couldn't help but think of you and how steady that blade was. There were times I could feel its coolness against my skin, like a frigid fingernail dragging down my belly, enough to feel but not to hurt. I didn't know that I could love that. You drag things out of me that scare me a bit, R, if I'm being honest. It doesn't feel like the animal I know... it's something new and lovely and terrifying.


And I have questions too, R. I don't think asking will get me far, or I would've already. I want to know and I don't want to know no, I want you to want me to know. I think. Nothing is ever straightforward when it comes to you.

 

November 5th, 1967

It's an odd thing to say, maybe, but you looked sort of handsome in that mask. Devil-may-care and mysterious, somehow just like I imagine you and yet nothing like that at all. Your jaw is softer than I thought it was, your lips less thin. I like these revisions though, make no mistake. I've sensed that you're not one to indulge in vanity, but this is my diary and if crushes are to go anywhere, they belong here. Something about that mask gave me chills that lasted all night and well into this week.

Every day I check in with Sandra at the front desk, Hopkins at his with the ugly watermarks. I dodge Dex and take my lunch alone. I've perfected the art of looking very busy when I'm actually not doing much at all; I think it's all in the eyebrows. They think I'm there when I'm really miles away and with you. The cool of the blade, dull but it made my heart ra We really ought to get your knife back. Do your ghostly inclinations extend to recovering tagged evidence, or are they limited to lifting spirits?

You're casting a shadow all your own, R. People are curious about you-- you're about the most dangerous thing in Hinckley. How you got the key perplexes me. You can't possibly be a teacher at the school; I know every one of them, and you're decades too young to fit the bill. A janitor? Maybe, but it doesn't seem right. There are directories I could look at, R. Do you really want me to find out?

I think I want another interview... I know you'll want something in exchange, so tell me what the price'll be.

Abigail
 
November 6th, 1967 26°, Light Clouds

You’re always asking if I want to be found but the question, Abigail, is do you want to find me? You could have unmasked me ten times by now, but you haven’t. Instead you let me cut away your ghostliness and lay you open again and again. I felt the skin of your thigh turn to goose flesh under my fingers as I sliced the sheet.

I am insulted that you think I would ever carry a dull knife, but I suppose it would be easy to mistake the back of a blade for the edge when it is being drawn across your calf, a cold, hard line.

The knife and panties I put in the locker are nearly duplicates of the ones I took. The knife is much duller than my grandfather’s. Sharp enough to open letters, maybe. Evidence tampering is a felony, but Deputy Barrios takes smoke breaks like clockwork and leaves his keys in the top drawer of his desk. He’s a godsend to felons everywhere. I may have changed the objects in the locker, but not the information it contained. I’m glad you made the suggestion. I’ll let you decide whether you’re an accessory or not.

I have been watching your window nights, waiting. The next time Joyce climbs down that trellis, I will be in your room before her bed is cold. I have a garment to return to you. I washed them in my sink and tinted my hands red. I bet you’d like to catch me in this condition.

The price for your interview is everything you’re burning to give. It’s not a fair exchange, I know, but for the life of me, I can’t decide who will be cheated.

R

P.S. I wrote a little note to the editor for the city. Who knows whether they will think I am less dangerous or more if it’s ever printed. You could probably stop it if you wanted. I wouldn’t know how.

——

Dear Hinckley, MO,

You’re a lovely goose and only a fool harms the bird that lays golden eggs. If I’ve found a treasure among your daughters what is that to you? You did not see her gold.

It feels good to have your heart pumping, doesn’t it? We all have our masks from best to worst, and if mine improves your circulation then I have nothing for which I need to apologize. If you want a real thrill, do me one better and try taking your mask off.

Peace, neighbors.
Your son, Shade
 
November 7th, 1967

Dearest felon, I thought I was supposed to ask the questions, and you provide the answers that are never quite answers. Finding you could make it all unravel, but I still feel the urge to finger that loose string, to feel it press between my fingers, to tug when I can’t help myself. It’s a dreadful compulsion, but one that isn’t managed by conscious thought. You make a better ghost than I ever could, beneath a sheet or no, and I think I would make a very poor robber. It seems like precious little is of value to you; would it be entirely ethical of me to steal your privacy?

Then, maybe we’ve left the land of ethics far behind.

Joyce smashed Mama’s favorite porcelain figurine three years ago. She tried to repair it with a dab of Loctite, but that ballerina’s extended leg is forever stuck in a subpar arabesque. Father used the figurine in a mortifying lecture about the importance of keeping our purity intact, but clearly the message was lost on both my sister and I. But once I know you, I know you… we can’t go back to before. Everything I’m burning to give you barely feels like a price to pay, but… I hesitate. This feels important. I don’t think I’m rea

Johnny’s parents are away on the 9th for some sort of conference in Michigan— the details barely matter, except that Joyce is sure to be enjoying their absence. Maybe you could enjoy hers. Try the window and hopefully by that time, I’ll have my mind made up either way.

Whether it is locked or left wide open, I’ll think of you. The strangest things carry the thought of you: my mother’s shears as she cuts the pattern for a new set of winter curtains, the scintillating sound of slicing they make. I miss my head in your lap, cozy and intimate. I miss the way you taste, spicy and anxious and feverish. I miss the way you feel in my hands, so alive and responsive and tender. I do miss you, even if I lock my window. I might not mind if you picked it

Abigail
 
November 10th, 1967 cool, about 55°

This may be the most selfish thing I’ve ever done. I need to see you read it, to see you relive these hours, to let you know what what I would have said. Your ear is close enough to whisper it to you in your sleep, but how will I see your face?

I brought wire and pliers, but you left it unlatched, a relief because the breaking part of breaking and entering always seems so crude and inelegant. The smoke from Johnny’s car was still in the air and I had a foot on your wood floor. I had our book in my coat pocket, a candle, matches. You were already standing in your room, your dress was blue, but I didn’t know that until later. I tossed my coat across the gap under your door. You slid your fingers up under the mask and I left your glasses on, but you didn’t look. Questions delight us, don’t they? Your fingertips on my eyelids were profoundly arousing. They’re arousing now, curled around me. Sometimes you twitch in your sleep and I twitch back. My thigh is warm with your breath, your ear, your cheek.

I stood behind you by the bed, candle in one hand, and made you whisper every line you crossed out in our book as I undressed you, button, zip, and hook. I’m sorry about the wax drip on the page, on your finger. Some things make me shiver. Words you said because I asked you to say them. I let your dress fall as you read, uncovered your breasts and watched your skin flicker in the flame. I would not have cut red or black, but white panties- I had unfinished business with them. Your nipples crinkled when the back of the blade slipped up your hip. I had my lips on your neck then, I tasted your pulse. You smelled so much like you, your breath, your soap, the smell of the paper you were reading from. I haven’t ever seen you bring our book to your face to smell it before. I’ve done that though, sometimes on days when you haven’t written. I know the smell of your handwriting.

I let my fingers rest on your stomach, you were almost done reading, leaning naked against my chest, my finger in your belly button. I could feel you hesitate at the words sometimes. A nakedness beyond just the falling of your clothes. That thrilled me. You could feel me hard against you through my pants. It will be the same when I watch you read this. Maybe I will sit behind you when you turn this page in the library, my back to you as you read. Listening to your breath will make you naked again.

I took everything but your glasses. You took those off yourself. I blew out the candle and took off the mask when you slipped your hand into my pocket and took my knife. It wasn’t my newest shirt. You kissed me and pinched my nipple. I don’t know what made you do that. It’s something to give a name to, I’m sure. Another new thing to try.

Spicy. The way you said it when you read, then you were on your knees making it true, making me feverish like you said. I had to make you stop and you didn’t want to. I had to hold you away so I wouldn’t come undone without you. You didn’t care just then, but I did.

You remember what came next, how you spread around me so slowly I thought I would explode. Your left heel dug into my back and your mouth opened. I licked your lips with the tip of my tongue. Everything slow, hot, wet. I pinched your nipple back and you hissed. I think I heard you smile. I couldn’t have smiled, but I was happy. I’m still happy.

I had to put my hand over your mouth once when we were stroking. I was deep in you and when I shifted something changed, you squealed. I had a brief vision then, another time, another day in the afternoon, making love to you against your door, your mother on the other side asking if you were okay. You made breathless excuses and pounded my back silently with a fist.

The second time tonight, you straddled me and experimented. There is only a half moon, but what I wouldn’t have given to see your face instead of a black silhouette against your unlocked window. You leaned back, squeezed, rocked forward, your breasts hanging where I could just catch them with my lips sometimes, your hair tickling my cheek. You came undone like that, pressing hard into me, your palms against my shoulders.

Now the candle is lit again and I’m writing with my right hand, my left hand is between your shoulder blades, feeling you breathe. You might be awake because you squeeze my cock every couple of minutes. When I tried to move away, you tightened your grip. If you ask to read this tonight I won’t let you because I am selfish.

R
 
November 11th, 1967

You're haunting me, R.

I've shivered so much that Mama keeps nagging about visiting Dr. Huggins and seeing about the cold I'm nursing. I missed you when I woke and I was cradling this book in my hands instead of you, but I understand your leaving was by necessity. My bed was cold without you though, and I shook in it. My flushed face and sweaty sheets were enough to convince anyone that cared, and now I'm enjoying the day off, reveling in it all, what we committed, that page that can't be unturned.

I feel as though I'm expected to defend my choice of not looking, but I don't have one prepared. I saw the slash of your mouth briefly, maybe a grin or a nervous grimace, it was too quick to tell. I know that I wasn't your first, so why nerves? Why did your hands twitch until I steadied them, why did your laugh seem giddy, a touch too high and a bit too long? These are intimate questions, but I only know you in intimate settings. I don't know how else we can speak to each other, and I don't much care for other ways.

It was nothing like they said it would be, except that there would be pain. I expected much more of it, and I expected to have to grit my teeth through it, but it was nothing like that at all. It was like... French fries dipped in a chocolate malt, somehow delicious together, the pain and the pleasure. It does make me wonder why everyone talks as though it's terrible for a woman. Maybe Joyce was right about something, The Man spreading lies and propaganda to keep young people from living free, never finding out the truth until you're old and married and trapped.

French fries and ice cream isn't quite right. It was like those candies my cousin brought back from a summer in Mexico. Mango-flavored lollipops coated in chili powder, spicy and tangy. Joyce hated them but I savored her share and mine, wrapping my lips around the end and sucking slowly as I'd read on a warm blanket in the sun, my lips buzzing and swollen from the spiciness... My lips are swollen now and my mouth is watering, if I'm honest, but not for any candy. When you're not in my bed, though, you might as well be in Mexico.

I can smell you in my hair and on my pillowcase. Burnt toast and something sweeter. If my parents ever knew that I didn't wait for holy matrimony it would break their hearts, but I don't think I'll ever be married. Not to Dex from the paper or any other sap that I'm set up with. Not to ghosts that haunt my windowsill and shape me in their hands like clay. Maybe there's something between spinster and housewife, a grey space for me that I never considered before. The trouble with grey spaces is that they're only visible to a lucky few.

I lit your candle again and snuffed it for the smoke. I need to work on my story... more money means college and an apartment. My parents would try to saddle me with Joyce if I don't have a roommate, I know it. On the one hand, she would probably stay out of my hair, but on the other, I've spent more than two decades with her in this tiny little room, and the arrangement would probably be indefinite, given my sister's given inertia and lack of a proper job. Two years separate us but we're still twins in some ways, sharing this womb of a room. If she won't leave, then I must... it seems terribly small in here without you, cramped and not cozy. Maybe I'll put an ad in the paper for a roommate.

Abigail

 
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