No answers, just other sorrows

Trees were soon thinking of undressing themselves; sweaters and jackets were filling shiny department store racks with small, white price tags hanging out like weeds. Mannequins were modeling a new winter fashion: 39.95 for blue sweater at Banana Republic, 27.99 for grungy blue jeans at Buckle, 34.50 for casual scarf and 19.50 for fitted driver cap at Gap. People were beginning to think of firewood and melancholic movies and foaming hot chocolate.  Excited talk of Halloween parties and festive fliers flourished on telephone poles and in hallways. Hixson Baptist Church was advertising its’ non-Halloween celebration and its’ trick-or-can idea — picking up cans instead of candy to give to the less fortunate. Car windows were rolling up and obnoxious music became muffled.  Starbucks goers were cozying up with coffee and lengthy novels, kicking off their shoes and squeezing their feet into chairs.

 ”Hello. Maintenance.” he tries to say somewhat offhandedly.

    The door opens swiftly as if she was standing right on the other side.

          “You scared the crap out of me,” she says coming out in her jeans and a tight-blue t-shirt that says MTSU in dark green, “I thought someone had broke in.”

          “At 9:20 in the morning?”

          She rolls her eyes upward, “Well, that occurred to me, but I heard a loud clang and footsteps that sounded soft, like someone was sneaking.” She exaggerates, “It could’ve been a robber. You can never be too careful,” she says with a facetious frown. He likes that she doesn’t take herself too seriously. She is only a couple years older than his son.

          Mark shakes his head. “I was just changing out the air filters for the air conditioner. They get worn out and don’t work so well. I thought I would do that when I fixed your shower head. You asked me to come this morning.”

          “Yeah, well I forgot. Do you wanna fix it now or after?”

          “After.”

          She’s tall, healthy around the hips. Mark runs the bottom of his index finger along the little line of tummy fat that peers out from under her shirt. He eases his fingers under the blue seam, feeling upwards until his fingers are in the grooves of her rib cage giving a brief, tight squeeze; he mimics this with his other hand and the blue shirt folds up. With eagerness turning his fingers to fluid, he slides his hand up, and lifts the shirt up over her head. It lollygags by the sleeve on her right wrist before it finally slides off. He’s kissing her with his chapped lips and the same urge to sneeze he got earlier bloats his nostrils; he imagines snot there like sap leaking from trees but isn’t sure. Tongues plunge blindly, tossing about roughly. He uses both hands to unbutton her pants. He looks down and she kisses his nape vigorously. Expecting panties, skin shocks him.

          “I got dressed in a hurry. I didn’t want to be robbed while naked.”

          He grins. He slides them down to her ankles before kissing her tan, but slightly pimpled thighs. Her nails scratch his scalp and tingles go through his hair; so close to the brain the nerve sensors must work slightly faster, be slightly more sensitive. On his knees and with his hands cupping the back of her legs, prickly from unshaven hairs, he gets excited and catapults himself back up, grasping her by the buttocks and taking her to the bed. He stands up to take his clothes off. Then he’s on top of her with his face furrowed next to her ear in curly, rusty-red hair. He feels too old. He’s desperately clinging to the feel of her, trying not to loose his grasp on the moment, like he’s groping inside a pocket full of pennies for a quarter he can’t quite grip.

The music was on to muzzle the clicking sound from under the hood —a residual effect of an unseen speed bump two nights ago when Andrew was too drunk to drive and Jason, driving, was dozing.

Andrew was driving to the party now. They maybe had two friends between them, and a promise: “It’ll be so much fun. you won’t regret it.” There was bird poop the color of mayonnaise center stage on the windshield. Music was playing. Jason couldn’t follow the clunky succession of beats or the singer’s moaning. The music was a blurr and he was too pensive. Something was off about the BP sign, something about the gas prices… the 8 was upside down with the larger half on top. Hardback cafe crouched in front of a motionless, near-empty lot. Jason loved being there on quiet nights like this with his back arced over a book. The song switched, but it didn’t sound too different. Andrew’s stomach was rocking in the way that turned Jason’s desire to Jell-O. A blue Sedan trying to do a U-turn almost hit some dull model of a BMW from the early 90’s. One of them honked, but it was hard to tell which one. It’s been hard to tell exactly what’s going on with everything.

“Damn. What were they thinking?”

“I’m guessing they weren’t.” The BMW stalled, but recovered after a moment. Jason hates when that happens. His nerves shoot to the edge of his skin and linger like buoys there.