Running With Scissors, in Bed
I stop at the door. Remembering that time in college, each holding a corner of magazine and studying the hanging centerfold, the bottle-blond girl parting her legs to expose ... everything. Almost.
“White stockings and pumps?” Stephanie’s voice climbed. “They don’t fit here. They look hazardous. Like running with scissors.”
“Yeah. Running with scissors, in bed.” I scratched my scalp. The girl’s birdlike expression – the close-set eyes, sloppily puckered mouth and airbrushed complexion – made her seem more naked, the misplaced hosiery and heels more woebegone.
“Huh,” Steph sighed.
That was also her reaction to my gift. Her hair is shorter and her cheeks rounder from time and the steroids she takes for MS, but her expression after she opened the box snapped me right back. “Huh.”
I winced. “Yeah.” Inside was something we’d discussed once, a talk that ended with her sobbing on me. She’d said, “I can’t wear stockings and heels anymore”; and my reassurance that it wasn’t important somehow made things worse.
But she didn’t explode. A thanks and noncommittal kiss as she closed the box and retrieved her cane for our dinner reservation. I never saw it again.
Although that was January, I know by her “Meet me in the bedroom” what waits. I turn the handle.
Steph lies in the eggshell glow of her nightlamp. More than anything I see dark eyes and lipstick, that make her bob look Egyptian. On her legs, the finishing accoutrements: the strappy sandals and black stockings. I note the crooked unease on her lips.
She starts when I nibble her toes. Not daring look up, I lick higher, circling her ankles.
I kiss her knees; finally her thighs part, warm and fragrant.
I settle between those exotic asps, on her eyes watery like wine. We smile, running with scissors, in bed.
Copyright © 2004 by PleaseCain. All rights reserved.
Since joining the Fish Tank at Desdmona.com, PleaseCain has published fiction on several excellent Web zines, as well as paying work in other genres offline.
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