Monday, March 24, 2014

A Stupid, Abandoned Storyline

His voice, thick as Ogre spit, drowns me when I sleep.  I whip open my eyes, sit up fast, wait for my head to stop bursting at the temples, my ears to stop clanging, my breath to slow, the sweat to sink back into my pores.  I can't stop the dreams.

They are never the same.  Some nights, he grins like a flirt.  Others, he bares his teeth like a fairytale monster.  Most times I can't read his expression.  It must be the one he learned when he was a cop.  But there is always the voice, and if I ever had enough temptation to draw nearer, that's what would halt me.  His accent drools on me.

I wish I could describe it better than to call it mixed regional, a merge of New Yorkers' "aw" replacing short "o," with the "ah-yuh" of upper New England with the southern penchant for drawing out vowels and dropping endings.  No one else I know has an accent like that, and it's what first drew me to him.  That and his hair.  Men don't often have perfect hair, but he does--thick, black, in place, like he uses mousse except he doesn't.  I routinely resisted the urge to tousle it.

"You're a real popper," he'd say to me.

"What's that?"

"You know.  A popper."

I still don't know what that means, but he always said it like it was a bawdy complement, the edges of his mouth sneaking up in a smile, his eyes a bit mischievous.

I don't like where this story is going, so I will stop here. 
Post a Comment