something with a "c"

>

and i think i'm awake.

sun on my back. someone's short muddy curls in my eyes. nightclub in my mouth. musky tongue sticking to my teeth. 8-hour-old sex in my nose.

i peel myself away from his thin, clammy body and i think i'm making a face like i just realized i slept with him. i tuck some matted hair in front of my eye to behind my ear and glance over his young back.

this is just great, i'm thinking. it's bad enough i bring guys back with me, but why do i cuddle up during the night? i'm not going to look too deeply into that, i decide. not until i get some coffee. coffee and rum. or coffee and jager. or maybe coffee and vodka.

coffee and whatever booze i still have around, i'm thinking.

i get out of bed - or it would be a bed if it wasn't just a mattress on the floor - as silently as i can, not wanting to wake him up yet. he better not wake up while i'm in the shower, i'm thinking. he better not be a serial killer, i'm thinking. and i'm avoiding the giant bathroom mirror above the counter to make it to the shower. the water takes what feels like forever to warm up, but once it gets there it feels good down my neck and back and legs. by the time the water went cold again, i realized i hadn't even used any soap yet.

soaking in water's as good as using soap, i'm thinking. or at least it's as good as i'm going to get today, and i'm toweling off before i realize that i forgot to bring any clean clothes to wear. quick peek out the bathroom door and there doesn't seem to be any movement or sound coming from the bedroom, but i can't bring myself to take the chance of him catching me naked the morning after, so i'm rooting around in the hamper, sniffing at handfuls of clothes. all i need are some clean-ish shorts, and a clean-ish top. i'd even settle for clean-ish panties, at this point. i'm climbing into some bicycle shorts and a small tanktop, wondering why i would even have bicycle shorts anymore, let alone recently-worn ones.

he's still lying in the bed-that's-really-just-a-mattress, still on his side. i'm hoping my glare will wake him up, but he just keeps breathing evenly, face deep into the pillow and smothered in the curls of his hair so all i can make out is his ear and jawbone. i give my glare tactic another minute or two before i move onto the foot tactic - shoving a big toe into his ribs, giving him a little rock. all jawbones and curls does is grunt, so i toe his ribs harder, a bit of a kick this time. he shifts, almost swinging onto his back before settling onto his side, but he's coming close to making words now, and i can see a flutter of lashes through his curls.

wh... - time is it? he's mumbling, throat scorched and tongue thick.

it's morning time, i'm telling him. it's time to get your shit and go, i'm telling him, standing over him, arms crossed, in bicycle shorts and a small tanktop, hair wet and on my shoulders. i should have brushed my teeth, i'm thinking.

he's crawling up to a semi-sitting position, crawling slower than anything right now, palm to his face of hair, grinding into his eyes and shoving curls away. any coffee?

i don't have any coffee, i'm lying to him. i think all i've got is something freeze-dried and shitty, i'm telling him.

that'd be cool, he's saying, smiling up at me, dopey and young. too young. i've got to get him out of here, i'm thinking.

i give him another kick. get dressed, i'm telling him, and i'm leaving the room to go find the tub of freeze-dried coffee, hoping that shitty coffee will drive him out.

where's my clothes? he's calling out to me from the bedroom, but i'm already in the kitchen, pouring out a half-filled coffee pot.

i don't know, i'm calling back to him, running some water through the pot. just find them.

i can hear him shuffling around in the bedroom as i'm scooping out coffee. i can hear him digging around in the living room as i'm waiting for the first drips of coffee, the jangle of his belt as i'm rinsing out a couple teacups. all the coffee cups within reach require more than just a rinse. plus, i'm thinking, teacups are smaller. this is a good plan.

he's in the bathroom as i'm pouring out the watery, flecked coffee. his teacup is on the small round table and i'm leaning against the dirty-flecked counter, taking a sip and feeling the grit in my mouth. i can hear the bathroom door open as i suck on my teeth and he shambles into the kitchen, a mess of curls and wrinkled, offset shirts and too-big pants. they're getting younger each time, i'm swearing. i'm going to stop drinking so much, i'm swearing.

after today, i'm swearing. after this morning, i'm thinking.

he sits down at the small round table as i take another sip, my eyes following him but face not. i'm going to stop going to clubs so much, i'm swearing. at the very least. no more clubs. i look away while he takes his first sip, keeping him in my lashes, watching a bit of a shudder in his shoulders.

s'good, he's saying. lying.

it's shit, i'm telling him, and i'm reaching into the drawer next to me, rooting blindly through some spoons, grabbing my crushed pack of smokes. i can hear the lighter rattling inside. two smokes left in here, 4 in the bathroom pack, at least half a pack in the bedroom. a few left in the living room. i'm good for today, i'm thinking. i don't have to go out at all, i'm hoping.

dry filter in my mouth, a flick of the lighter, an inhale, and a release. it's like the first time i've breathed this morning. i'm tucking the crushed pack back into the drawer and look over at him finally, wet hair and smoke in my face.

so hurry up and drink it, i'm telling him. i've got errands to do.

he takes another sip, silent and slower than anything. i suck at my flecked teeth, put the teacup down and draw from the cigarette some more, but it's not calming me. it's just making me more anxious to get into the pear vodka i saw in the freezer. maybe he's simple, i'm thinking. maybe my drunken fuck-urges finally took me to a retarded, under-age kid. maybe i'm a sexual deviant now. maybe i have to start introducing myself when i move to a new neighbourhood as a sexual deviant who drunk-fucks retarded kids. maybe this really is the end of my life, i'm thinking.

he sputters out a cough and i blink back into focus, looking away, tapping some hanging ash out into a smeared bowl on the counter behind me. god, i'm saying. were you this slow last night? how did i stand taking you home?

i don't know, he's saying through his curls. were you smoking this much last night?

his bite give me some relief - thank god he's not retarded, i'm thinking. instead he's just annoying, and wasting good pear vodka time. so i step over to the small round table, look right through his curls, and drop my cigarette into his flecked teacup.

looks like you're done, sport, i'm telling him, going back to the counter, back into the drawer of spoons and creased cigarette pack, fishing out the last one. filter, flick, inhale, release.

he's looking right at me now, still hasn't moved. y'know... he's saying, and i know where he's going before he finishes with i think i know you.

i'm already wincing, but hoping i didn't show. instead i look away completely.

did we go to school together or something? he's asking.

dunno. how old are you? i'm asking.

twenty three.

then no, i'm snorting. praying he doesn't actually know me.

i swear i know you, he's saying. and i think i can hear him actually squinting and concentrating. i've got to derail him and just get him out of here.

y'know, we already fucked. there's no need for pick-up lines the morning after, i'm telling him, exhaling, turning just enough to look at him through some wet bangs. i tap out some ash.

no - no, it's just... and finally he moves. holy shit! he's yelping, eyes big, finally swiping most of the curls out of his face, sitting up like the excitable little puppy he is. and there's no reason to delay the pear vodka any longer, i'm deciding.

i'm pulling out the frosted half-finished bottle from the freezer, lot looking at him, but hearing him snapping his fingers. you're uh... holy shit! he's still talking. you're a model, right? like - i've seen flicks of you on like, uh... all naturals and stuff like that. porn flicks!

if i'm not careful he might puppy-piddle in my only remaining kitchen chair. i rinse out my flecked teacup in the sink and pour out a shot of vodka. yeah, probably, i'm telling him, still not looking.

oh my god! he's squealing. you're uh - shit. cathy? cat? something with a c, he's saying, and i'm taking my shot of coffee-flecked pear vodka and probably making a face, but i pour another shot.

don't strain yourself, i'm telling him. it wasn't a real name anyway.

oh, he's saying. and i turn around to lean against the counter again, but still can't look back at him. i can feel him on me, though. his eyes. i can feel him trying to replay last night. this is totally insane, he's saying. i mean... you have no idea how many times i beat off to you when i was still in school.

the second shot of less-coffee-flecked pear vodka makes my throat raw. well that's just totally fascinating, i'm growling. time to go.

what? no, not yet - oh. you don't like talking about it? he's asking.

perceptive, i'm saying, and tilt my teacup at him.

well what are you doing in a small town like this? he's asking. do you live here now? he's asking. i figured you would be in cali or something.

aaaand now it's time for the police, i'm telling him, reaching for the phone across from me, on the stove.

what? aw c'mon. this is huge, he's whining. can't i ask you some questions? i mean, we've already done it - what's the harm in some questions? this doesn't exactly happen to me every day, he's telling me.

i'm leaning back against the counter, resting the phone against my forehead, hoping that by closing my eyes he'll suddenly disappear. questions are more personal than i want to get with you, i'm telling him.

i can hear him scratching through the curls on his head. well... can we fuck again? he's asking.

i look right at him as i turn on the phone and he's up on his feet, hands out. okay okay! he's saying. i'm sorry, he's saying. this is just really awesome, he's saying. i probably have to move again, i'm thinking. why am i so stupid? i'm thinking. why can't i just be addicted to dildos? i'm wishing.

he crosses past to the door out at the other end of the kitchen and i'm suddenly conscious of how little i'm wearing. it's so much worse when they remember they know you. knowledge turns into power. sex turns into violation.

i follow him to the small concrete laundry room between the kitchen and the door out to the backyard, holding the door as he stands out in the sunlight, turning back to me, looking frustrated.

my friends aren't going to believe this! he's telling me. can i get your number at least? i'd like to do this again, he's telling me.

that doesn't make this a one-night stand anymore, now does it? i'm telling him around my cigarette, already dreading another move to another cheap basement suite somewhere else in town. already deciding yet again to never go out for a drunk-fuck, already deciding yet again to just quietly drink myself to death, to stop needing cock-runs. to just quietly fade away. but that's all in a moment and i'm slamming the door on his curls and his wrinkled, off-set shirts and too-big pants.

i wait to hear his shuffled footsteps up the stairs and away before i lean from the door, chained and bolted, and go back to the kitchen. back to the pear vodka. back to the plan of slow death.

right after another shower, i'm thinking.