Drunk off a Kiss

A daydream has been swimming through my head.

I was putting down a bottle of cheap wine in a pretty blue bottle. The glass bottom slid and scrapped against the smooth counter top and my mind wrapped itself around this idea. A flash of a memory that never happened, first quick, like a blip on a film strip, now more defined, darker, pervasive.

Still in the kitchen, bare feet soaking up the coolness from the pink stone floor. The windows are black as pitch, letting me see a reflection of myself standing in an empty, dark, cold room. I think I feel you more than see you walk down the long dark hallway behind me. There's a shadow in the glass, but the shadow looks like me, small-dwarfed by an empty, dark expanse that lacks any part of home. There is no light, I'm not casting a shadow. I can't turn around to see who's behind me, but I know you're there. I hear your footsteps, heavy, hard-wood heels clicking on hard stone floor. I know you're breathing, the whistle of air rushing from your mouth to my neck is thundering in my ears. I squint into the window to see you, see me, see past us towards the tall trees scrapping against one another. The roar of the cicadas ebbing and flowing, up - down - loud - soft - many - one...threatening to drown out the sound of your skin.

I don't hear your arm move against fabric, but I feel it lift and brush my side, fingers trailing prickling my flesh. Am I dressed? Are you? I can't tell. I feel comfortable, cool, not shy or vulnerable. You must have clothes, the fabric scratches across my shoulder blades as I'm turned around roughly. You're tall, so I know I don't know you, my eyes don't move but stay staring at your chest. It's as black as the window, no it's your shirt that's black. The small buttons are just as shiny as the glass, dutifully holding the fabric in check, lining up the seams.

Your fingers dig into my arms, I can feel soft tips and sharp nails, squeezing hard, holding me in place even though I don't want to move. Your nails drag up my arm, I don't flinch. Your thumb feels thick and insistent when it presses into my chin, fingers guiding my head up. Your eyes look like the buttons, dark discs that don't reflect anything just spark. I know I'm mirrored in them. I must look so small from that height, so needy, so wanton. I know you now, I used to, I will.

Our lips meet, it takes forever, it's a surprise. Your lips part, I can see your teeth, they could tear my skin, rip me open, you're so gentle. Your breath slams into me, your lips barely brush against me.

And I taste it, sweet wine. Smooth, cool liquid at first slipping over my own lips, sliding down my tongue. Overwhelming me, it bites into my lips, it burns my mouth, tingling and painful, a rush of fire, rolling hot lava, straight down my throat, searing my insides. I'm speared, torn open, torn apart, hot, burning, pain. Your buttons are red, your eyes are black. Then fruit, apple, pear, peach...soft warm summer fruit, the smell of grass and flowers that grow back home.

And your lips brush past mine. No hard kisses, no panicked invasion, no need for anything more, no promise of anything more. I'm not disappointed, you smell like wine and curry, you taste like fire and wood. I'm hungry for a real meal - this was enough to fill me.

You hardly touched me...our mouths are still closed.

And I look into the window and only see the trees and I'm cold and lonely and the stone floor is hard against my knees, but I'm going to stay here and wait.

I fully intend to get another bottle of that cheap wine in the pretty blue bottle.