Angels' Dares: Volume 1 (reposted with the four sections consolidated)

“Take me where you’re going,” he commands. “I want to go there, too.” I’m not really headed anywhere, but I’ll make something up for him. He’s the kind of guy for whom I don’t mind fictionalizing.

I’d been hiking through the rain, and I’m dripping on the floor now. Just inside the door and I need to lose a layer. He nods at me discreetly as the party blurs around him. I had told him not to cut his hair.

Halo snipped, he’s incandescent. And the fluttering in the mirror isn’t wings at all, nor robes of whisper-woven cloud. It’s the undulation of man-made fabric, women surrounding him, spinning their skirts ever so slightly to draw his attention, caressing their own necks in absentminded longing for his gaze, pretty pouty lips praying for the benediction of his eyes upon them. Listen closely; that’s the sound of panties falling.

Men like him are always surrounded by women. Like him? As in, men drawn to me and I to them. We fly to each other when flying means falling, and falling to flesh means approaching eden. And I’m not sure exactly what I meant by that except that taking him anywhere would result in lost clothes.

Always, they excuse themselves from their congregations to address me. They prefer not to be overheard when they breathe challenges into my ear, life-sparks into clay. A sculpture this one could mold with sure fingers should he synch their strokes devilishly with the flick of his tongue.

"To a museum. I am going to a museum."

"Are you coming?"


*****

Autumn night, and the colors of this world are deeper. And our world, if you recall, was already more saturated, dripping cobalt and crimson and chocolate like the rain off my body when I slipped into that party. I found you, as expected: a wicked half-smile, bottle of beer, as many women as your free hand allowed you to count. One finger for each of them. How is it that you manage to do that?

No matter. That door's closed behind us, the party's noise receding. I am hiking through the rain again, but this time it's with you. I speed up. I shall not fall into your orbit.

I'm in the middle of the street and by the driver's door before you've time to reach out a hand, as if standing out of arm's reach means staying out of harm's way. We're a car's distance apart and still I see the horizon of your lips.

*****

Each door slams. Sheltered, I experience the rain as rhythm, and I know he does, too. Sound, for each of us, is sex, and that would make this situation very bad. Or good. You know, depending. I stare at the windshield as if seeking divinity in the ever-shifting patterns of the raindrops.


"Which museum are we going to, exactly?"

He is as in love with subtext as I am, and this I love about him. He lives beneath the blatant, where no one expects to find him, where I must seek him out. That pretty people never live where they can't be seen is a lie. I smile, liking that he faces down fabrication with faux belief, leaving me two choices: lie more, or lie down. I submit to the obvious.

And then skip right over it.

"You didn't care where. You were coming anyway."

Now I will look at him because now it is he who must choose, and there is nothing more alluring than a man caught mid-thought. I watch as the challenge courses through him: brow-raise, blink, half-smile, lip-nibble, the glimmer of teeth, the tip of his tongue as he wets his lips as if about to speak. I say "as if" because he wants me to think he's about to speak. Mostly, he wants me to wait longer. I speak instead.

"You don't have to answer. I like making it easy for you."

A full smile now, as men are wont to show when they get what they want without having to work for it, and the hint of a laugh as he tosses out the question idly, "And why would you want to do that?"

The answer has hovered about our every interaction to this moment, and stretches forward into every second we will ever share: he desires most what other men cannot have. This is know, and this I give him.

"Because you know I make it difficult for everybody else."

*****

Overexposure--bright, blinding. He smiles with lightning; his hand flies just as fast.

Reflex—my eyes snap shut. In the instant of my darkness, four fingers inside my right thigh, a thumb above my knee, warmth--shooting warmth--and the first breath of a question. One sound and I know I will not admit light until he is done.

“What…” It is a whisper.
“…Else…” A low rumble.
“…Do I know?” Distant thunder.

I shouldn’t have told him what words breathed in blackness could do to me. And his voice… mingling with the rain… Some people, you tell things, not caring that you’re surrendering keys and incantations, ammunition and amulets. The bright wisely, carefully, shrewdly store each, until they know it’s time; the blinding possess timing so precise, doors acquiesce open the moment those talismans slip into their hands.

I graze my teeth over my lips—bottom over top, top over bottom—slowly, so slowly. A sensation of my own to focus on. Regulate my breathing before I open my eyes. But he knows. His thumb presses into my leg, subtly more than before.

I open my eyes anyway, turn my head. His gaze is steady, relaxed. Practiced. I am not fooled.

“Always more than you let on.”

I possess as many amulets as he; I conjure just as timely. I can know simultaneously the depth of his irises and the location of my own thighs. I draw my legs together, savor the heat of four fingers between them. Relish the barely perceptible raise of his brows, the dilation of pupils lit only by the street lamp stretching heavenward despite the downfall of the rain.

“But...” I continue.
“…You…” I float my hand above his forearm.
“…Always…” Smooth it over the soft cotton of his jacket.
“… Need…” Soaking warmth into my fingers, sliding down.
“…To...” Heated fingertips meet his skin and skid.
“…Hear…” I graze my nails instead.
“…It...” Over the back of his hand. I drag them, dig them.
“…Spoken...” Deeper.

A slow, tight, full squeeze of my thigh.

Again, lightning.
Reflex.
Eyes snap shut.
Darkness.

But no thunder.
No rain.
Silence.

Warmth.
Sunlight on my eyelids.
Open them.

No car.
No street lamp.
No New York City.

Day.

Day illuminating his eyes.

And a swath of summer sky I've seen before.