The One Who Got Away by Kristina Wright

Author:Kristina Wright
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Kristina Wright
ISBN: 9781627781770
Publisher: Cleis Press Start
Published: 2016-01-11T05:00:00+00:00

IN THE DARK, SO BRIGHT

Laila Blake

She was the first person I saw that night, standing across the room, and the shock of recognition fired through my system. I hadn’t wanted to go, had pushed and bullied and jostled myself off my sofa and away from the joint I could have rolled. I never liked industry parties, full of people desperate to be seen. Performers do better in groups of normal people, I feel.

The music was bad, like anything that tries to appeal to the broadest possible spectrum, desperate not to exclude or offend anyone—lukewarm and stale, like the beer served at the bar. There were some other people I knew; nobody I wanted to talk to. But the flash of her profile haunted me, more than I was ready to face.

I found her again, once I had my drink, saw her standing in a group, laughing, gesticulating with those fingers I used to admire—long and strong for a woman, agile in their expression. Her hair was different, and she wore more expensive clothes, but she looked just the same as she did a few years ago. She still didn’t use any makeup I could see, still wore flats on a party floor littered with clicking heels.

I remembered the wave of curiosity that had washed me to her shores when I first saw her. We were younger then; I was still in my twenties and I think she was just nineteen. She was stocky and tall, heavyset, with limbs and torso as big as mine, and maybe stronger. She moved her body with every word she spoke, hands and shoulders and face expressing her thoughts louder than any voice could. There was a strange grace to her, a curious attraction.

I’d wanted to fuck her even before I knew her name, wanted to feel those strong hands around my cock, wanted to find out what it would be like to eschew all standards I’d grown to accept, in which the first thing a girl had to be was smaller than. Smaller than me, smaller than her friend next to her.

I was drawn to this girl, this woman, who occupied space so confidently.

She was a songwriter, I found out by listening in. She ordered red wine, not a beer or a cocktail, and when her group dispersed I made my move. We talked until our feet were aching, until we found a table in the thinning venue. We talked all night, talked about music and poetry and about the stars. We talked about the intricate relationship between colors and sounds, about sex and obsessions. We compared tattoos and tried to express in words the way something so painful could feel so good. After her fourth glass of wine, she told me she liked to be fucked the way she wrote her songs: raw and hard and honest. No icing, no hollow words and no sugar-bow on top.

I remembered my cock was straining against my jeans. I wanted to pull her out into the night, wanted to fuck her up against the wall and on the taxi ride home.

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