Eat the Apple by Matt Young

Author:Matt Young
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing

Future Perfect

If I decide not to go home and instead turn around and head back to the bar, I will have to retrace my drunken steps the three or so blocks I’ve already stumbled. But I won’t walk, I’ll run because I am drunk and because there was a mildly attractive woman—a friend of my platoon mate’s wife—hitting on me. She touched my arm and traced my tattoos with a manicured nail, sending shivers into my armpit down my ribs to my ball sack, constricting the flesh and flushing my face. So I’ll run. Which means I’ll show back up at the bar sweaty from the Southern California aridity, ready for another drink. Those of my companions who never left will cheer momentarily for my return and then resume their conversations or heavy petting or beer chugging.

If I don’t order another drink, I will ignore the tacky saliva collected at the corners of my mouth and the tumescence of my tongue and instead walk up the stairs to the outdoor porch seating where the woman is tossing her hair and settling into conversation with my platoon mate’s wife. I’ll lay my hand on the soft exposed flesh of her upper arm. Startled, she will turn her head, and I’ll lean over her face and kiss her. She’ll kiss back and I’ll grow hard and her saliva will wet my mouth and I’ll forget about my thirst and all about my fiancée.

If I go home with the woman, because it’s Southern California it will take us an hour to get back to her apartment, which is only twenty-five miles away. It will give me time to sober up. I’ll grow tired and groggy and my head will bob and the woman will reach over and unzip my pants and grab hold of me and squeeze and rub and stroke and she’ll say things like, Stay with me, and, Make this worth my time, and, Just want to see what I’m working with. She’ll follow up with coquettish smirks while keeping her eyes on the road.

If I mention my fiancée, the woman will withdraw her hand and say something like, I’m not into regrets. This will translate to, Shut the fuck up about your fiancée. And so I will, and after a few moments of tense silence and shitty, dated alternative-rock radio I’ll move my hand high to the inside of her leg, hitching her skirt in order to feel the humidity between her legs. I’ll work my fingers against her panties and feel the stubble at the convergence of thigh and trunk.

If I follow the woman to her bedroom, I will try to psych myself up, to think of witty and sensual things to whisper or growl—the best I’ll manage will be, Your hair is pretty. The woman will be all business. When I botch the bra removal she’ll say, Stop—it was expensive, I don’t want you fucking it up. She’ll remove the garment herself; take time to place it in a dresser drawer; leave me sucking in my gut, erection bobbing and wagging, awkward in the dimness.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.