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Last updateTue, 06 Aug 2013 2am

Monday, 25 June 2012 18:08


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Image from the Darkana Tarot Deck - http://dandonche.co/store Image from the Darkana Tarot Deck - http://dandonche.co/store Dan Donche

Our shakings hands hold each other and our breath is visible inside the car. We sit parked at the edge of the world, shoulders pressed together, so quiet that the twinkle of the stars is an ambient static. I touch her face; push aside the long strands of golden silk from her eyes.

She doesn’t respond.

Her eyes rest somewhere out the front window, sending sapphire rays like daylight into the darkness. I try to read her mind, listen to her thoughts. She is frozen still, far away from here, drifting peacefully out to sea and being washed away from the tainted canvas of our life together.

I admire her dress, the way it falls over her chest. My eyes move to the dark space between her breasts. I kiss her neck and her skin blisters. I move my hand to her knee and her eyes close. My fingertips slide over her chill bumped thighs and her body braille reads, this isn’t rejection, but I need you to stop.

I don’t stop. My heart races as my hand inches toward her panties. Her hand reaches mine and our fingers tangle together, the two hands retreat back to the seat. She drops her head onto my chest and holds her eyes closed.

My heartbeat slows to rhythmic sledgehammer pulses and I try to embrace the warmth of her skin against mine, the itch of her hair on my neck. Her eyes are still closed. I tell her I love her and her eyes clamp down tighter. Suddenly we are trapped in uncomfortable silence. Our bodies melt together, sinking into the seat, and she finally caves. She submissively slides my hand into her shorts and turns her head away.

My heart feels like a wilted rose with no future as I run my fingers over the soft hair inside her underwear. Her body goes stiff, her breathing constricts. I pull off my jacket and wrap it around us. We lay still like beaten dogs. When I take away my hand, her knees come together and her heart slows down. She finally opens her eyes. Again, they fix on something far away. My eyelids fall and I feel her drifting away again.

Then without warning, in a voice as delicate as glass, she whispers, “I love you.”

I don’t respond.

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Last modified on Monday, 25 June 2012 18:12
Devon Robbins

Devon Robbins lives in rural Utah, where he writes in front of a phonograph with too much coffee and way too many cigarettes. He is the editor of Downer Magazine and has recently had work featured in The Molotov Cocktail.

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