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This is the sort of girl who will shell multiple pistachios in advance. This girl, you just know she could do this for hours, perhaps forever, perhaps never having eaten a single nut in her life but having shelled and shucked and committed pistachio genocide, mass pistachio caesarean section, and done it endlessly. Pistachio financial planning for oblivion.
This is what I watch her doing right now, though it does not go as well as it has before. Her fingers, they are numb. She shivers, and shells spill out of her lap and tinkle onto the tile.
What she says is, “I’m cold.”
This girl, her name, it is Joy.
Joy has gooseflesh.
Joy has blood that forms great pink pools of blush around her cheeks and nose.
Joy is in the twelfth grade.
Joy is smoking my cigarettes.
She says, “It really is just very cold,” and as she says this, smoke waterfalls out of her nose and mouth. She sniffles.
“I thought we might try the um. The balcony. I thought it might be an idea.” –That was me.
Joy, “Brilliant” she says. And she coughs.
I am in love with Joy. Really, I need only to watch Joy in the process of being cold. That shivering jag. I can imagine no simpler joy than this.
This girl who will shell pistachios into the future, she is what you might call my student, if you were so inclined. I am her English tutor. This is a strange arrangement, being that I’m fairly well completely ill equipped to tutor Joy or anybody else. I don’t read much, and I understand even less. And I’m terrible with kids. But this doesn’t matter. My other students, they don’t even notice, probably would not care even were it pointed out to them. Nobody needs this. But Joy who smokes my cigarettes, she especially does not need this, does not need me. She is in fact immeasurably smarter than I am.
“Do you want to talk about Change?”
“Ug,” she says, and then again: “Ug.”
“You really do know all this. This is boring you, I know.”
“I’m reading Wild Swans.”
“For the Change unit?”
“For a change.”
“Should I read it?”
Joy stands up, her arms wrapped around herself, flicks her cigarette into the courtyard. She leans back against the railing, shivering, breathing steady clouds of vapour, her arms this tight cradle bringing small and supple breasts together in a hug. Trying not to notice, but you do. It’s bright on the balcony, and Joy, she reflects clearly and perfectly and stunning in the balcony window, and it is never Joy but this reflection I stare at; briefest exposure of belly button, pierced and painfully perfect, a breast glimpsed fleetingly through the gaps between buttons of sympathetic school shirts, the groove of skin home to a substantial tattoo, seen only ever once, maybe permanent though probably not. I’m staring, and maybe she notices, maybe has been noticing since these sessions began, but this is OK. Reflections can misunderstand each other.
“Do you want a jacket?”
“You know what? I hate Chaucer also.”
“I know, I know,” I’m saying, as I pull myself out of my jacket, feel the cold afternoon run through me, and wrap it around her shoulders. I rub her upper arms briskly for warmth, and she smiles a little, maybe, and says, “Thanks.” Instant intimacy. I’m lousy with kids.
I go to lean next to her on the rail, searching myself for cigarettes, when she says, “I think this is our last session.”
“It is not.”
“It is. It’s true.”
“When are your exams?”
And I cannot find my pack.
“Um. In a week or so.”
“OK.” A pause, then; “Do you want to go over anything?”
And I remember my cigarettes are in my coat, and without thinking too hard about it, or perhaps thinking a little bit, unconscious and dark, I reach into the inner pocket of my jacket wrapped around her, which is fine, and I feel my palm brush across her breast, gently and almost imperceptibly but for the unmistakable sound, not even a sound but a sensation of rough dry skin on fabric, that totally innocent non-moment of friction over nipple, hardened in the cold, a second and no longer, something soft and warm, and then, hooray, I have cigarettes. Fleeting seconds of contact, these brushes and touches at once nothing and everything, I think about these a lot. There is a moment, perhaps, where she catches my eye, and of course she has noticed, has felt my palm slide over her breast like fingers over a trackball, and her face is maybe confused, some forming expression in the eyes that I am too hopeless to read, and then it is gone, and she is saying, again:
I say, “There’s nothing I can teach you today.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“Dude. It’s fine.”
A pause, then; “Do you want a beer?”
“I’m being picked up.”
“It’s just a beer.”
She yawns and stretches, clasps her hands together over her head and arches back like a cat, her shirt pulled up a bit by her rising shoulders. And there is a tattoo, you were not mistaken: a lunar cycle, line of crescent moons that follow the curve of her hip-bone down and underneath her skirt. And then she shudders, and lets her arms fall, the shirt falling with Anadolu Yakası Escort it, and it is gone.
“I’m very much a light-weight. Very much a push-over.”
“I will miss you if you leave. Maybe I don’t see you after today. But that’s Ok. Just have a beer with me.”
“You’ll rape me.”
“I won’t rape you. And I’ll drive you home.”
“It might seem sinister if you drive me home.”
“It’s fine. Your mother likes me.”
“My mother thinks you are the biggest wanker in the multiverse.”
“No she doesn’t.”
“Maybe not in the multiverse. She thinks you are cripplingly ugly. She can’t look at you.”
“It’s not my personality?”
“I don’t know. It certainly doesn’t help.”
“Do you think I’m ugly?”
“Maybe. You should shave.”
“I like my growth. It hides my face.”
Joy draws her knees up under her chin. Her feet are bare; her ankles both haloed by the same bruise from the elastic of school socks. She hugs herself tightly, goose-flesh all up her shins and thighs. Even with her legs bunched up in front of her, you see perfectly well that her underwear, it has a butterfly on it – this is the same as staring at the sun, and you maybe notice a stray pubic hair and look away, but the picture is burned, it is tattooed as it were on your forebrain, and you think of nothing else but that singular, stray, hair.
You have wet-dreams in the key of butterfly.
Think about all the flashes of skin and shadow accumulated over the months, and you can maybe picture her naked.
And Joy says, “You’re not hideous.”
This girl drinks her beer in silence by my heater, her cold skin melting, dark hair hanging over dark eyes, stray strands gathering into the corner of dark lips. Even now, still, it’s strange for me, having such a thing in my apartment. The image doesn’t mesh; she is so small, so perfect.
What am I?
I am so large, so much a fuckup.
And I am cripplingly ugly. You should know this. I am a scarecrow, my cloths nothing but ridiculous knitwear, cigarette burns or moth-eaten, I’m not even sure. My hair is stupid. My face is pale like cadaver. My goatee, my absurd face-fuzz, this is nothing but pubic hair. Drunk and unhappy one night, a hand covering my nose and cheeks so as not to break the spell, I stared at my pubic chin in the mirror for hours until it became the muff of Joy, a joyous muff. You begin to hold conversations with Joy’s bush in the mirror, terrified only later by how weird you’ve become, and all Joy’s bush ever thinks to say to you is: you should shave more. You should get out more. Read something. Ug.
This is what you might call self-flagellation. That pre-emptive strike of defeatism.
Joy, she stands up and sits next to me on the couch, then shifts, swivels, her skin squeaking on the vinyl, and lies down, her legs across my lap. She’s fever-warm from the heater. This is the first time she has touched you, by the way. You should know this. Not bumped into you or brushed past you, but a real touch, real contact, enough to feel warm. It is nice.
Pulling a cigarette out of my pocket, Corona sweating cold in her other hand, that same cheeky-fucker smile, what she says is, “Some teacher.”
On her first beer, she tells me why Chaucer is stupid.
She tells me it is because romantic love is stupid, and because fuck Plato.
With Joy’s legs over me, her saying that the Black Knight was a loser, she shifts, and you feel the friction where her butt resists the vinyl; underneath her legs, under her thighs, I start to harden, worried that she might notice but also not, my stomach nothing but butterflies.
She says that all these guys did was worship some babe, and then die alone.
She says that at least when Shakespeare did Troilus, he got laid.
I have no idea what she’s talking about.
Joy, I’ve never been this close to. I can’t think of anything to say, so I stay quiet, drinking languorously, trying to will my erection away, your best friend no longer your best friend.
On your second beer, your dick is swollen and angry, nestled warmly in the nape of her knee. You are embarrassed, but this is OK, because you are also a bit drunk. This is your second beer, remember, and maybe you start to say things like, “I really will miss you if you go.”
Joy says, “that’s stupid,” but in the corner of her mouth there is a smile, maybe. “You’re way too old to miss me.”
“I’m not old.”
“I’m not even 30. I’m totally just a boy still.”
And it’s true. I am only ever just a boy.
“I’m a foetus if you’re a boy. It’s silly to miss a foetus.”
“You can stop by. You know. Whenever you want. I don’t get out much.” Slurring.
On her fifth beer, she says that for a foetus, she has had a lot to drink.
Me, I stare at her lips for a moment, perfect and kissable, her looking flustered and cosmically tipsy, all red ears and nose, all slow, sleepy blinks. Some teacher.
On her sixth beer, she asks if you want to see her tattoo. She’s bored I guess. And you nod, but who knows, maybe you’ve been nodding all evening, vaguely comprehending mostly nothing. And so this girl, this cosmic girl maybe scooches Kartal Escort up and gets on her knees, makes eyes at you like this is a dare, and it is, to be honest — this look, this “dare me, fucker” look, it melts you — and she lifts the base of her school shirt up. This absurd and hideous school uniform, the way it looks on her is wonderful, and with a fist of white polyester she slowly hikes it up, a big unveiling, pulls it up into a bunch and holds an unseen breast out of the way with it. This breast, the base of it is what you spot, the flesh of it pulled tight and into obscurity, and how it looks is pale-white and soft.
I’m paralysed by this. Maybe you would be too. It occurs to me that I could be in a lot of trouble, occurs to me that maybe this shouldn’t be happening. But there are chemicals inside you, chemicals from an unsympathetic universe, and the bad chemicals in my brain tell me: say not a fucking word. You’ll only ruin it.
My dick, my just very angry dick strains, pushed off too far to the left so maybe no-one will notice. In my head however, this begins to seem increasingly less effective a rouse to me, and I sit up to shift myself. This is a mistake, however – my jeans pull at me, bending me the wrong way, and I cry out in pain.
“What’s wrong?” she says, and the spell does break for a moment.
“Nothing, nothing. I tore a muscle.”
“Oh, no…” she says, dropping her shirt and looking concerned.
“No! No, I’m fine. Show me your thingy.” Gestures, waving.
And she furrows; then, a small smile, serious and dark, and she pulls her shirt up again, shuffling closer to me, hair hanging over her face, spinning spider-web shadows all down her chest.
This girl, holding her breast up and out of the way with her bunched up school-shirt, the way it looks like a balancing act being propped up on her knees this way, you start to think that maybe she shouldn’t have had so much to drink. With her other hand she runs a finger down her tattoo, traces a lunar cycle across her solar-plexus, tracing over her rib-cage like speed bumps, goose-flesh returning, tracing over her slight and perfect paunch, and then she undoes the safety pin holding her skirt together, peels back a corner of her fly, and hooks a thumb into her butterfly, pushing down the band of her underwear just an inch so you can see where the moons end. There is a flash of dark pubic hair, just a flash, a corner, and then she readjusts her thumb and it is gone.
Joy, prying herself apart from two directions, she is all pale skin and shadows.
I say, “I think it’s cool.”
“Shut up”, she says, and then, looking deeply serious, “Here,” — she takes your hand, and her palm is dry and warm and slides perfectly over yours.
“Here. Touch it.”
She guides me to her skin, my hand reflected and warped by the stainless steel in her bellybutton, and I feel a warmth, a kinetic energy from her body. Her chest I watch rise and fall, her breathing that little bit heavier from trying not to breath too heavily, her watching me watching her with dark hair filtering her eyes, fingers drawing closer, staring at the light peach fuzz all over her skin, the tiniest white fibers glowing, backlit by the lamp light behind her, glowing dustmite floating around her. This lamp, the way it shines through her school uniform, her hips and breasts a dark shadow behind polyester, light that only barely catches her spare nipple straining against her shirt, I love that lamp.
The bad chemicals in my brain release me for a moment, and I have maybe a moment of clarity, if you could call it that. My shaking hand I pull away, leaving her soft grip, and, thinking hard for a moment I say, stupid and confused:
Her hand stays where it is. “What’s wrong?”
“This is dangerous.” – that was me.
She grimaces, says, “Only if you have infectious skin diseases.”
“I’m drunk. And I’m taller than you.”
“Oh get real.” Angrily, a bit. Her hand drops, and she rolls her eyes. “Listen. I am not about to try anything with you.” Strangely, this does not make me feel any better. “Just…you know. Run your finger over it. It’s recent. It doesn’t feel like skin yet.”
And she takes your hand again, still shaking, places it on her hip, your thumb resting on her waistband, giving you flashbacks to girls in high school. Your pinky just inside her skirt, her shirt and breast still held high by her other hand, you trace a circle around the second half-crown with your index finger, her tummy soft like velvet. Your fingers are too rough, too fucked up to notice any difference between tattoo and skin, but this doesn’t really matter. This is to miss the point. Despite herself, the backlit silhouette of her body under her shirt, you see it shudder. Goose flesh rises, those delicate fibres around her waste and arms standing on end.
My hand quivers, and she asks me if I’m cold, but I don’t answer, too transfixed, too intent, and, shifting slightly on the couch, feeling brave, I peel back her waistband with my thumb, pulling it down that same inch.
“Hey,” is what she says, but she doesn’t move either.
“Just a peek.”
This moon, this tiny first moon, buried in that cosmic groove that Maltepe Escort waterfalls down into her cunt, you envy whoever put it here. You wonder how long this artist held this waistband away, or whether they had to hold it away at all, and thinking this my dick cries out for attention. Your best friend no longer your best friend. I stare for a moment, too nervous to touch it, glimpsing that same stray pubic hair, feel vicariously the rough tickle of her bush against fabric, and let the band snap back.
My fingers start moving again, running slowly up her side, her shaking, maybe – it’s possible – nervous the way I am, my fucked up useless calloused fingers scratching lightly up her soft skin, running up over her ribs just as she had, my lunar ascent up her body.
You read gooseflesh like brail.
“They’re smooth. Weird.” – this is her. “It doesn’t feel right.”
“Your skin is perfect.” – me this time.
“It’s not. I’m fat.” Her.
“Shut up.” Me.
“Because you’re beautiful.”
“You’re so beautiful and you don’t even know it.”
Her kneeling over your lap, holding half of her shirt up, back lit and breathing heavily, you mean this. She is achingly beautiful.
She smiles, and then abruptly ceases to, like you weren’t supposed to see this.
This is not some cursory thing.
People have shown you tattoos before. Girls who’ve shown you some looney tune on their ankle, some dragon on their back, some rose on their butt. Guys who show you swords on bicep, some useless Gaelic epitaph down their wrist, Chinese characters that they themselves can’t read.
Nothing this intense, though. Not this intimate.
Still shivering a bit, that uncontrollable nervous shake that you remember yourself from back in the day, back when nakedness was still magical, she shuffles forward a bit on her knees and then, perhaps her legs are tired.
You just don’t know.
And she shuffles forward and lowers herself, sits down on me, nestles her butt into my lap and puts all her weight into me. Her skirt flowers around us, around my lap, and I can feel on me that friction, panties stretched and well worn sliding around between her cunt and I. She presses heavily into me, nesting right over my hardness, and even through jeans you just know that she notices. How could she not? Her warm sex resting on me, this is a reprieve. It is wonderful. You think – this is quite bold, no? Quite brave? And she pulls her feet back and behind her, her knees hugged tight around me, her skin squeaking over your stupid fucking couch, and reaches a hand behind her, propping herself up, leaning back, the skin of her tummy pulled taut. You feel her shaking against you, and what you want to do is hold her, is pull her into you and wrap your arms around her because how she looks right now is so vulnerable and exposed and scared, maybe, and when every other day this girl is confident, she is smart and self assured. She blinks that same sleepy blink and slumps down, tired of holding herself up, and you feel her press into you even harder.
You don’t hold her though.
The truth is, you’re terrified.
My fingers almost touching hers now, my thumb strokes her skin softly, the soft and pale skin just under her breast, and you hear her sigh. She closes her eyes, drunk and tired, opens them slowly and looks straight at you. My hand slides further up her, the tips of my fingers brushing the base of her breast, and, somehow still holding her shirt up, lips partly open, breathing through her mouth, hair gathered in the corner, she wraps her pinky around yours. This pinky, she grips it tightly.
And there is a moment, perhaps a full minute though more plausibly not, but for a moment there is stillness apart from the steady rise and fall of her chest, felt almost imperceptibly in her cunt pressed into me, and I stare at her lips, plumbago and parted, closing as she swallows loudly and then open again, the air that escapes them blowing hair away like a lofty pendulum, and she searches my eyes for something, possibly cigarettes though more plausibly for something else…for what? Some sign of yes, some affirmation?
The alcohol in my head makes me dizzy, makes me sweat cold and nervous, and she blinks that same sleepy blink and keeps staring at me the same way.
She sits forward, draws up her spare hand and rests it on my chest limply.
“Pins and needles.”
Nothing to say.
This arm on my chest, flaccid and bloodless, I wonder if she feels my heartbeat, fast and erratic, some cardiovascular bongo solo by a wearying John Bonham. I reach forward with my spare hand, the cigarette between my fingers having nearly consumed itself completely, and run two fingers up her wrist, tickle the inside of her elbow – Farmer Pete plows the field, etcetera. She exhales in a half-laugh, barely feeling me in her dead arm but still perceiving me, perceiving touch. What the hell are we doing? The cigarette in your hand slowly inhaling itself begins to waft smoke into Joy’s face, and she recoils as it finds her eyes, her face scrunching up in that shampoo-sting grimace, and you’re stubbing the butt out on the back of the couch like it’s helpful, and you reach for her face and try to cup her cheek like it’s helpful, feel the warm tears on her cheek, her blinking back the sting, and your face is near hers trying to look her in the eye saying Sorry, sorry, sorry… And then she is still, wincing but getting over it, her eyelashes glistening with wet.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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