“I don’t know how to tell you this” is really just “you’re not going to like hearing this.” So I already had raised my defenses: my face grew cold and emotionless, my brain erecting the tallest of walls separating emotion and thought.
“I don’t know why but we had just taken shots, and I was supposed to start a session on this one guy,” she said, my brain quickly filing this away, shoving it in a tabbed manilla folder labeled “Excuses” even as she finished the sentence in telling me he was a “regular.”
“And uhh, well, so I mean I didn’t know what I was thinking,” she continued, buying herself time, treading water, spinning round and around. “But maybe he knew I was drinking, or…” she trailed off.
We’d been walking a little while, already a little disappointed that the Greek restaurant was busy, overcrowded, opting to wander a little longer. I’d lost my appetite though.
“He asked me to blow him for extra and I did,” she blurted.
I don’t know if mattered, or if my mind was made up, and the only thing she did was to fill in the pieces. I didn’t say a word, even though I wanted to. It’s as if my brain knew that it’s happened and nothing I could say would change that.
All I could do instead was to visualize her mouth opening and engulfing a cock. A cock attached to some unknown male, some unnamed, unspecific, and prototypical man, as basic as Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, only with the squared circle of movement drawn around the profile of her head plunging up and down as she sloppily sucked that cock.
It was simultaneously every and no man down the street we were walking. It was the face of no one I could recognize yet the face of every man I’d ever seen.
Morbidly, I wondered if she thumbed her nipples, fingered herself, or let him slip aside her panties and feel her wetness against the pads of his fingertips. Even now, I curse an imagination vivid enough to bring moments like these to life.
* * * * * *
I had stopped caring if I was getting wet. The weather’s been fickle in the city with no gusty May winds to whisk away grays and Spring days; it was instead a mixture of humidity and rain, like London’s weather. Raindrops soaked my hair down to the scalp and ran down my face in beads, thick and heavy, crumbling and eroding down the scowl on my face.
She turned, after taking a few strides towards the nearest awning, to see me walking along, steadily, step after step in the rain, past her, past the subway entrance to the 7 train, drifting away, my head and my body in decidedly different places.
