Joyland: Take 1 I'm wearing ultra low-rider camo pants that barely cover my crack and if she looks she’ll
see the strap of my thong. This filmy, beige crop top where, if I get a
chill, my nipples will be my most outstanding feature. My hair looks sexy
hanging in my eyes. My walk is killer. She can’t not
notice me. I enter her field of vision, she does a slow double take, then
stops mid-sentence talking with her clique, the LBDs, mid-sentence. Her eyes
scrape me, skim me. Scratch and burn me. I feel her drink me in and salivate.
I don’t look. Not yet, not yet. My eyes shift slightly. ZAP. ZING. She’s hooked.
I smile her in. She’s mine. Joyland: Take 2 Same sexy me. She detaches from the LesBo
Dykes, or Les Beau Dykes, and follows me to the parking lot. She gets in her
car; stays close to mine, runs a yellow light. She tracks me to the bank of
the river, to the edge of Fallon Falls. We park and get out. I step on the
slippery rocks, arms extended, balancing across the rushing water. I spring
to the shore, knowing she’s on my scent. Around the side of the boulder, I
duck into a cave and wait. The smell of burnt sugar tickles my nose. I hear
her. She enters and steps in front of me—reaches out a hand, both hands, and
moves into me, slides her arms around my waist, my bare skin, where nerve
endings spark and snap. There’s no time to blink or moisten my lips. “Hi. I’m Johanna.” She kisses me long and hard; awakens the ache of longing inside
me. Her lips are metal, then melon. Finally, finally she lets me go. I gasp
for breath and she smiles, a one-sided, sliver moon smile, and says, “Now
that we have the introductions out of the way…”
“Johanna, dear?” I jerk to the present. “Mrs. Arcaro has passed,” Jeannette says. I missed it, the last breath of her life. A pang of guilt for
daydreaming at this critical time stabs at my heart, but I chase it away. I give
Mrs. Arcaro’s frail hand a gentle squeeze and lay it
on the sheet. I feel Mom smiling down on me from heaven. As I’m leaving Memorial Hospice, I feel uplifted. I meant
something to someone. Even if Mrs. Arcaro was a stranger, I’m the one who was
there for her at the end. I’m the one who stayed. |
![Description: C:\Users\Julie\AppData\Local\Microsoft\Windows\Temporary Internet Files\Content.IE5\EO6K458I\MC900083175[1].wmf](ExcerptRage_files/image005.gif){kind=small}
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Privacy Statement
Website Copyright © 2000 by Julie Anne
Peters
All Rights Reserved