Clipped

Burn Scars

I didn't mean to say no. Or the rest of what came out during the monologue that followed it. I like her. I do. I might even say I love her — platonically, of course. It's a feeling that wells up down deep and coils its way around my insides and keeps me warm on cold nights. It's fuzzy and ephemeral and lingering at the same time. At base, I just know it feels good.

Sometimes when I'm with her, we watch a movie. I sit on the floor, using her chair for a back rest, and when I glance at her all curled up on the bed across the room, my mind runs on fast-forward through ridiculous romantic possibilities.

It happens when she says or does something completely innocent. It could be a scratch of the neck or a sleepy look in her eye or just the position she's arranged herself into. In my head, I'm already moving across the room to sit in front of her so she can play with my hair. The buzz cut is clutch when it comes to getting play.

Her hand will trace slow, electric patterns that travel all the way down my spine and into my nerves. She'll start to sweep concentric circles that oh-so-gradually get bigger and lower. By the time she reaches my neck, neither of us will be able to stand it. I'll turn my head just enough to kiss her softly on the neck. And then we're off to the races.

I think all that and I laugh to myself, which diverts her attention from the TV. She looks up lazily and asks, "What's up?"

"Nothing," I'll counter, as I smile and shake my head. That's good enough for her. She yawns and stretches her way out of the blanket before settling herself in again and focusing on the screen. I live for that stretch. She's helpless and vulnerable and all I want to do is wrap her up like the blanket does when she snuggles with it.

Other times, when I've been having girl trouble, I'll go over just to be around her. She'll ask if I'm hungry and when I say yes, she tosses me the bag of sunflower seeds she keeps around just for when I come over. I've never seen her eat them around anyone else. I'll pick up the remote and lazily flip through the channels, seeds resting on my lap, paying as much attention to the show she puts on as the one on TV.

She just goes about her business, doing homework, talking to people on AIM. When she gets extra studious, and tucks her hair behind her ear, her hand caresses her ear slowly on the way down and around to her jaw. The nape of her neck is regal. It's one smooth unbroken line that sweeps right down and nestles into her shoulder muscles exactly the way it should. It's my favorite place to kiss people. A soft one there is key — slightly moistened lips, a little lingering for good measure and then a pause after you pull back. If the vein in her neck gives a slight twitch or you hear her moan, she's yours.

When she gets up from the desk to go to the bathroom, her thin sweatpants ride lower than they're meant to. Her black thong plays peek-a-boo and I choose not to reciprocate. She measures every step, not because she's showing off, but because she's in no particular rush. The arch of her bare foot is a clean line that is curved perfectly. I want her to wear strappy heels just so I can have that curve on display all the time.

I'm sitting on the futon with one leg tucked towards me when she comes out. She walks over with her head angled slightly, as if keeping track of the TV. She plops down next to me, and the cushion sinks down and springs up as it adjusts to her weight. She's small enough that when she tucks her legs, she can dig her heels into the edge of the cushion and be reasonably stretched out.

I shift the bag of seeds away from my body so she can get in it easier. I get erect in anticipation and when she reaches in and brushes against the tip of my penis through the bag, it jumps in response. She just finishes her scoop, eyes on the television, and starts munching away. She spits the seeds into a plastic cup she brought over expressly for that purpose.

Every time she spits out the empty husks, I can't remember what's going on in the show we're watching. I can almost see a devilish twinkle in her eye and a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth as she starts to reach into the bag. She grabs a handful, but the seeds slip through her fingers so she has to dig in a second time to get any. I start paying major attention to the TV. It's amazing how you can still be amused by an episode of the Simpsons you've seen five times if you really watch it.

I leave by making up an excuse about having something to do, because I don't want to get caught in that weird position of overstaying my welcome, but her not wanting me to leave enough to kick me out. Sometimes she calls me over for a hug while she's sitting down. This forces me to lean over, bend at the knees and bring one foot slightly off the ground, all just to stop myself from falling all over her.

If we run into each other randomly, and it's time to part ways, we occasionally get caught between a hug and a kiss and have to back up and gamble on what the other is going to do next. If we cross signals again, we usually settle on the guy-girl modified pound, which lingers longer, meets perpendicular (guy hand horizontal, girl hand away from body) and is a clench of fingers, not palms.

Sometimes, I use that as an opening to pull her in for a kiss on the cheek. I always make it overly dramatic. I use just enough force to make her stutter-step to not fall, and ends up falling into me anyway. I brush the wisps of hair out of her face and cup her jaw in the palm of my hand. They fit together like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. I plant a big wet one on her. People stare, and she flushes just a little and gives an embarrassed smile that isn't really embarrassed at all. I throw a wink and flash my trademark two-step peace sign (first two fingers out sideways, then pop the forefinger up) as I walk away.

But sometimes when she gives me a hug, she plants one on me when I'm about to pull away, as if to let me know that I earned one and she wanted to make sure I got it right then. I walk away feeling a little dizzy with a stupid smile starting to make its way across my face. I'm unable to think about anything but her, and it gets me all the way home before realizing that I've left.

Later that day, when I sit down to do work or lie down to sleep, I'm unable to do either. Little flashes of shared memories keep popping through my head, each one fleeting in and of itself, but unshakable as a collective whole. Some image will burn itself into my psyche and will cause a prickling sensation in my scalp, starting from the back of my neck and making its way up until it's unbearable. I bust out my notebook and write until the image has flamed itself out. All I have the energy to do after that is get in bed and go to sleep.

That burning sensation is what I was feeling when she asked if I wanted to go out to dinner. She actually said it like that — "go out to dinner."

"What, like a date?"

She looked back at me over her shoulder, one hand on the door.

"Sure," she said, ever-so-demurely.

I shifted uncomfortably and avoided eye contact by looking at the TV. I hesitated, I glanced back at her and then focused back on the screen.

"I'd really rather not."

Her mouth twitched and her shoulder dropped. Not a lot, but just enough to let me know how well she took that.

"But…"

I shifted up on the futon. I knew what I was doing. I think.

"That's against the rules. It defeats the whole purpose of our relationship."

"That's not fair."

The tone in that was so not good. I think her lip was starting to quiver.

"C'mon, you very well know that's out of line. I mean really, kid, wha'd you think this was all about?"

That did it. I definitely saw tears. She plead with her eyes for mine to make contact. I kept flipping channels. She finished pulling open the door.

"I think it's time for you to go."

That took a second to process.

"Huh? …Oh."

I grabbed my keys from where they had fallen out of my pocket and lifted myself off of the futon. I walked over to her.

"Later kid," I said, as I planted a quick kiss on her cheek. She took a quick breath after I pulled away. The door slumped shut. I like to think that she was crying with her back against it. I hope that "no" burned its way into her system like memories of her did in mine.