Issues

“Wish”

Melissa Simmons

There are a group of three guys that hang out at a club downtown. The place's name is "The Saint". One of them recently was crowned archangel of the club, the highest honor of a club-goer. This man's name is irrelevant as are all other details of his life and family and loves long lost, because right now all that matters is that he is watching her with a slow heavy smile playing about his lips. That makes her think of lips and how his would feel and what else could be heavy upon hers. Bet he’d be big, she thinks, and orders another beer.

His friends speak of nothing and everything, words sliding down their faces like rain on a tin shed in the middle of a forest where nobody could hear her bent over the broken-down table and nothing visible in the darkness behind her but a slow smile. She wishes to be nearer to that smile especially if she were the reason behind it. the man speaks to a waitress and his friends immediately burst out laughing uproariously as the girl scurries away blushing. She too wishes to be that waitress, to be the object of his derision, to carry that shame around with her as a badge of pride because he caused it. her envy is a den of snakes coiling, twisting inside. She wishes he were inside.

Slowly she slides her finger down the side of her illegally-purchased beer, collecting condensation and running the moisture across her dry lips, wanting him to look at her but refusing to check. Are those really his eyes she feels upon her or is she imagining it? what would happen if he came over? Would he start by introducing himself and ruin everything? carelessly she unbuttons all but one button on her shirt, letting the fan above her head cool the exposed skin, still refusing to look back at him and see if her display is unnoticed. Her face is flushed and light with her own daring and she holds the glass up to her forehead. Putting it down again, he is there.

“you need one more unbuttoned,” he says, and does it for her. Turning away without another word, he returns to his table. She is perfectly silent now, waiting, feeling nothing but the eyes, the curious and the scornful and the disgusted and the lecherous, all searing her skin and branding her as public property, to be leered at and visually fucked as much as they want because she is there and she will take it. while she cannot keep from being aware of the crowd and their reaction to her, she only watches him as he joins his friends. Waiting. Waiting. He speaks in a low tone and they again laugh, too loudly, and give each other high fives. That was what she was waiting for. Red spreads down every inch of naked skin, flushing her young breasts. She wants to flinch and hide and run but instead she holds her head higher and inhales, taking this blow as he intended and wishing for more.

Melissa didn’t dare so much as read over the story again. She vaguely remembered that it was short, shorter than the first. She also remembered that she had picked up from a point in her first story, the casual comment about her character watching some men at a bar and wanting to get fucked by them. That it was dark, and that darkness stemmed from inside her—but it was good, because it was who she was. No more hiding.

Still, she couldn’t reread it to confirm these thoughts—to look it over would be an invitation to correct, change, make it into just the sort of polished work that got her a B-. It wouldn’t be as honest to Mir. Williams. To her. Without another glance, she attached and sent it. Immediately a sense of calm pervaded her; her muscles, so used to tenseness in preparation for an imagined attack, slowly relaxed. She felt better than after an orgasm. Well, maybe not after the orgasms he’d given her. “Damn, those were good,” she thought dimly before crashing on the couch—his couch—and sleeping until the next day.

Morning came quickly. Stretching, Melissa idly wondered why she felt like she had just been attacked by an overly-affectionate pack of pit bulls—and then remembered yesterday in a rapid series of flashes. The talking. The fucking. The writing—“Oh shit, he’s probably replied already!” She leaped out of bed, not even concerned by the fact that she really cared what he thought of this paper. She had already unconsciously accepted that her prior “who cares?” stance was bullshit. She cared. She wrote what was in her soul and so she damned well cared what people thought of it. So with not a small amount of fear, she opened her mailbox and the email awaiting her inside.

Melissa,

Although the subject matter was harsh, I'd like to applaud your efforts on this assignment. The imagery you used was stunning. I felt that you had something to let out if only the correct medium presented itself. I’m glad to see that you have found acceptance within yourself—it shows. I also know what you were intending to prove to me by writing this so soon after our meeting, and I appreciate it. My own self-acceptance is slower in coming, but it will come. I think it is best for now that we do not interact outside of the classroom. Thank you—for everything.

I only have one more thing to say.

A+

I don't often give such a good grade, but you've been a good student.

Mr. Williams

This time, smiling, she didn’t even try to wipe the tears away.