“Say it, please,” she pleaded. “Tell me you love me.”
He finally conceded and said the magic words while she rode him as if she couldn’t get enough. It had been a long time for the both of them and never like this. His dick filled her again and again, to the hilt, withdrew and then went back inside to the point of her muffled shout. His thrusts became faster and harder still as they rushed toward climax, their moans in harmony as they soared together, their sexes matching thrust for thrust.
Soon she was peaking once more in an intense burst of pleasure, overcome so strongly with the power of a clitoral explosion coupled with his continued pounding, coming so hard that she lost her senses for a moment. Her eyes went wild, crazed. When the raging storm of desire finally subsided, she stared at him like she wanted to kill him. Her eyes burned into him, dark and brooding. Eventually, her mood passed and she eased into his arms, lying still, mouth to mouth. It was evident that something had snapped inside her. But I left some things out. That was the last thought he had before sleep seduced him.
A few hours later, they got a bite to eat, beef tacos, beans and yellow rice, chased with three chilled bottles of Corona beer. She wanted to walk around town after the meal, although the sun was still strong and very few people were out. He relented and let her have her way. On the outskirts of town, they rented horses from a wizened old man who thought they were gringos, albeit “Los Negroes Americanos”, brought in to repair the roof of the ancient cathedral there. They rode out into the flatlands several miles away, following a dusty trail that ran south along the river. She laughed when his horse, a brown stallion, whinnied loudly from thirst and stopped to drink the grimy water. He stayed atop the animal, clutching the reins tightly, feeling its warmth and bulk beneath him. She dismounted and walked in front of her horse, near the ragged sagebrush and cactus. For him, it was good hearing her laugh.
Eventually, they tied up the horses, took off their clothes and waded out into the river. The water went up to their necks, briefly cooling them. She swam closer to him, smiling, and put her arms around his neck. Her weight made him slip and he went under, the water going into his nose and mouth before he could resurface. They laughed and kissed after he got his breath back. He watched her swim out into the middle of the river with short, powerful strokes, the water shimmering as it rolled off her back and neck. Twice she dived under the surface of the water, with her exposed sex pointed up toward the heavens. He swam out to meet her and they played like kids, swimming side by side, floating on their backs and splashing water on each other.
When the frolicking was over they swam back to shore, where she took a blanket from her animal and brought it out to the riverbank. They sprawled on the blanket, ate the last of the dry tacos, shared the remaining warm beer, and cleaned sand from their toes. She kissed him and closed her eyes, holding an arm over her face to shield it from the blazing sun. He lay there silent beside her, enjoying her company.
After a time she moved close to him, touching his face. “Baby, I left some things out.”
“Huh? What?”
She said nothing else. Her full, soft mouth covered his own and her tongue slid easily between his lips. Maybe his leaving everything behind was not so bad. His ex-wife was never this hot or spontaneous. Everything was planned, thought out to dullness, according to schedule.
“The man I killed was my husband.” Her voice was drab, lifeless. “He deserved to die. He wouldn’t give me a divorce. I was in love with another man and he knew it. He made my life hell. I only turned to someone else because he was such a mean bastard. My young lover left me too, walked out, after I killed my husband for him. Something went haywire in my head. The doctors said I had a complete psychotic break, totally nuts. Lost my mind completely. Do you hate me now? Do you still love me?”
“Yes, I still love you,” he stammered. But he had some doubts and fears.
“Does this change anything with us?”
“Not really.” He examined her face carefully for obvious signs of madness and found none.
“I really am nuts, you know,” she said, taking his hand to suck on his fingers until he pulled away. He could feel his sap rise along with his dread of her.
Later, they made love all night, going at it in every variation possible, until they collapsed exhausted in the juice-soaked sheets, totally sated. He slept the sleep of the dead, as the saying goes. When he awoke, Amina was gone, all of her belongings as well. Most of his remaining money was gone from his wallet. She had left him chump change, a few dollars. Panicked, he raced down to the street to see if everything was gone, and yes, his precious black 1949 Mercury Club Coupe had been stolen too. His woman with the deep red voice. Damn her!
While he stood bare-chested in his shorts in the spot where his car had been parked, a very pretty Mexican woman with dark features carrying a basket of white plastic skulls approached him, holding something. An envelope. She stood and watched him open it.
The letter consisted of four sentences, hurriedly scribbled in childish handwriting. His hand trembled with anger as he read its painful black-widow message:
I still left some things out. I am crazy and you could get hurt. I really like you. There have been others, before you, like you. This is the best way, for both of us.
He stood there dumbfounded, completely confused, like he had been slapped three or four times in the face with a blackjack. Or knifed in the heart. A real fool. Threw everything away for one night of pleasure, his entire life. Across the square, he saw three people in skeleton outfits marching in a group toward the empty market. A truck full of mariachi musicians, fully dressed in their stage costumes with guitars, pulled up and the men jumped off and walked into the hotel. One of them held a large skull in his hand.
Tomorrow was the start of the two-day Mexican Day of the Dead festival, the celebration of Death and its many wonders – how appropriate for him right now.
And maybe he was crying a bit because the cute Mexican woman patted him softly on the shoulder and said: “Mujeres, ellas dan mucha lata.” Which loosely means: Women can sometimes be a pain in the neck. Possibly true, if you don’t know where and how to pick them. But not in this case. Amina knew who she was and what she was about. He was the one who didn’t know anything about himself. She did him a favour, walking away before she took his life too, and added his scalp to the others. A real blessing, her gift of his life after that night of miracles. In his hands was this new start, this fresh possibility, Aminas gift. All he would do now was wash up, eat, and take another accounting of his few assets, and then there was time to think about tomorrow and the day after that.
Going Out With Angela by David Surface
He met her in a writing workshop in the basement of an old church. The other women seemed either angry, fearful, contemptuous, or unapproachable in some way. She alone moved and spoke like what in some other place and time might be called a lady – settling herself into the ridiculously small school chair with a calm, deliberate grace, measuring out her words the same way.
When she read a story about the house she’d grown up in, it was clear to him that this was someone who cherished things. It was generally not permitted, he was noticing, to cherish things. People here wrote the same way they drove their cars, to establish dominance, to force their personalities on the world and mow each other down with their big, angry voices. Like the skinny woman with the spiky black hair who turned on her one night, calling the story she’d just read “sentimental”.