Turn Around

First person narrators are great for charting a changing mind – trying to retract a foolish, automatic misstep. – Malinov

Turn Around
by Lord Malinov

Driving home at two AM, I began to wonder why.

She’d asked me to stay with her and I wanted to stay, to spend the night, to finish what had been started, to lounge in the beauty of our evening together until dawn broke and I smelled the sunlight in her hair as she slumbered in my arms. But I left, started the long drive home. Found myself wondering why.

I met her three weeks ago, installing a telephone line. She lived way out of town, the furthest reaches of our territory, beyond the furthest customer I’d serviced. I was in the office when she came to arrange service. I gave her the form and she wrote her name and address and number. I snatched the form and scheduled the service call for myself. I wanted her the moment I saw her. She was fine, my kind of fine.

A week later, two weeks ago, I drove out to her house to install the line. She looked beautiful, smiling wide when she answered the door. We spoke briefly at the office and she didn’t know I would be doing the service call but she seemed delighted to see me. I did the install efficiently and gathered my tools. She offered me a soda. I sat down and took a drink.

This business has taught me about people. I know about how people get lonely and just want to talk about anything with anyone. I know about people with wants and desires, who will push and pull in strange ways to get to some unspoken personal goal. I know about friendly and angry and impatient and nurturing and excited and repulsed and adored and abused. I know how people are. This wasn’t like that.

We got along like old friends. We spoke the same language, mostly. We remembered the same things. We took an interest in each other. The soda lasted almost two hours. I had to get back to the office. I asked if I could call her. She hoped I would.

I struggled hard to play coy and somehow managed not to call her for three days. I didn’t want to frighten her with the explosive attraction I felt for her. I knew I had to play smart. I basked in the warmth I still felt from being near her.

When I finally called, it was as though I’d never left. We picked up right where we left off. I immediately realized I could have called her anytime and she would have been glad to hear from me. I had wasted three days, playing a game that we didn’t play. I cursed myself and vowed to stop wasting time. I asked her out.

We were going to go to dinner and a movie but we never left the restaurant, talking over coffee until the staff nudged us out. I took her home and left her with a kiss. There was a half-hearted mutual desire to end the evening in bed but the late hour made it seem too foolish to pursue further. She invited me over for dinner. That was tonight.

She cooked. I fixed us a drink. We talked and ate and talked and drank. Music played. She sat down beside me. We kissed.

She touched me where I needed to be touched. I squeezed every bit of her body in my hands, exploring, devouring, adventure, knowledge, every moment discovering a new playground. She sucked on me as I prodded and caressed her wet entrances to a calypso beat. All passion welled within me, heated desire and a completion in yearning. Everything I wanted, I had. Everything I was, she loved.

We twisted and turned in damp rigidity through every relevant facing, laughing through bursts of loving needs. Orgasms hit us like lightning, seconds that passed in hours in the release and enfolding of everything we were, together. We collapsed and laughed and couldn’t quite stop.

I don’t know what made me get up and leave. Maybe it was all too much, too much feeling, too much spent. I felt confused, disoriented, almost afraid. I gathered my clothes. I wasn’t even thinking.

She asked me to stay. I mumbled something, my keys already in hand. We said goodbye.

I drove away. I asked myself, why did I leave.

And I turned around.

About Lord Malinov

Lord Malinov, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in books, fiction, literature, personal, short stories, writing and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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