So We Can Glow - Stories - Leesa Cross-Smith Page 0,64
handsome. You bought all new things. I love this,” I said, reaching out to touch his new tie, to let my finger slick down. “This dress isn’t sexy. I screwed this up already.”
M kissed me. M kissed me like he thought my dress was sexy, like we weren’t sad at all, like we’d never been sad. M kissed me like our baby had never died, like the letter B didn’t exist like bees didn’t exist, like the alphabet went right from A to C and every flower pollinated itself. Even the bougainvillea. We could start over in California—the oceans, mountains, and trees that didn’t stop growing even when they scraped the sky. I kept my eyes closed tight and kissed him back like I was with my husband and having my affair too. M. Marco. A familiar mystery. He wrapped his arms around me like I was all he’d ever wanted and now. Now, he finally had it. And when we stopped kissing, he took a deep breath and started the engine again and drove us to the bungalow—the bungalow dripping in bougainvillea. The sun-heat smacking my dusky skin and his too as he lifted my luggage from the back of the car and carried it inside.
* * *
M was completely different from Marco in bed. Marco was quiet and focused, tender. Sweet. M was sexy-rough and vocal about what he wanted, what he liked. I wrapped my legs around M’s waist and he held my hands over my head, locked our fingers together. Is this what you wanted? To fuck someone else? To have me fuck you like you’re someone else? I don’t want someone else. I want you, he said in the deep, breathy voice that only came out when his mouth was warm against my ear, in darkness, in bed. I could see the slinking shadows of our clothes, snaking from the bedroom door to where we lay. M had locked the door behind us and put his hand down my leggings, between my legs and told me I was sexy no matter what I wore. He loosened his tie and asked if it was okay, if I was okay and I nodded against his neck and gasped. Gasp-laughed and made a noise I was unaware of until it came out of my mouth. As if a chipmunk or some kind of squeaky animal had leapt from my stomach to my heart, careened between my lips. We stumbled to the bedroom like a four-legged monster, M behind, his finger inside me, his other hand up my shirt. And anytime I thought about our baby I squeezed my eyes together as tightly as I could and told myself I was in California and we don’t talk about death in California. Everything was different in California. We were different in California and I didn’t have to think about any of that until Sunday. It was Friday and the air smelled like oranges, like a lemon ocean. I was having an affair with M, secreted away with the flowers.
* * *
M went out to get us food, came back with sushi and hot sauces, sticky rice and slippery noodles, crispy noodles, fried egg rolls with cabbage and carrots and shredded pork. He’d put his nice clothes back on and when he returned, he changed into a new pair of white pajama bottoms. The night had turned windows-open-cool. And I told him he’d never smacked my ass hard enough when I asked him to. He surprised me by quickly dropping his chopsticks and scooping me up, putting me on the couch. Taking his time to slowly pull up the hem of my white nightgown, to let his fingers brush my skin before he smacked me. Hard. My eyes stung with tears and I took a slick of breath in.
“How’s that?” he asked.
“That’s good.”
He smacked me. And, again.
“That’s good,” I repeated.
“I’ve never done this?” he asked, smacking me again. I arched my back.
“You never want to hurt me.”
“No. I don’t,” he said, rubbing me where he’d smacked. Leaning over and kissing me where he’d smacked. Turning me over and wetting his face, devouring me while our food cooled next to us on the table.
* * *
We left California together on Sunday. When we were back home, I called him Marco when I was crying in the bathroom and needed him to bring me more toilet paper.
“And we can’t always go to California. It’s too far. We can’t afford it,” I said, sniffing.
“I’ve