Page 27 of Xavier

He left.

He packed up his things, folded his clothes, each and every one of his shirts, his two pairs of work pants. Bundled up his socks, two by identical two. Pressed them into the empty pockets of his suitcase, and walked out the door.

In his head I imagine he imagined he looked like the hero shot of a lion walking through a ring of fire, untouched. Except that it was a ring of children he'd selfishly fathered.

Among them, a pair of identical two-year-old baby boys.

"I can't do this anymore," is what he told us.

Like ‘doing this,’ taking care of your own family, is something you can just wake up to one day and decide that no, it's just not to your taste.

My mother wasn't there the exact moment he walked out. She maintains that he'd been gone long before then and the only difference after was that there was more room in the closet.

For what, I'm not sure.

If I had to draw a picture of her, of how I think of her, she'd be wearing her diner's uniform, in varying degrees of cleanliness.

It makes me sad to think about, so I stop.

I flip over onto my back, the sky still dark outside my window.

Yesterday afternoon replays in my mind like a film reel; every frame, every second, somehow my brain retained it all. Scratch that, it retained everything that pertained to Malynda, everything else is like white noise. Just the background to her shining star.

The film starts with her appearing out of nowhere at work, every inch of her long legs clung to by that pale pink Lycra, making me breathless. My body is already awakening to those images of her, the hem of her tunic only just reaching her upper thigh, hiding the descent of her leotard disappearing between her legs.

Damn.

I'm hard.

I don't know how I can control it when I'm there with her, but right now, my body feels like it's almost bursting with the need for release.

Over her.

I let my hands wander downward as I continue my replay. The way she'd bend and twist, picking up her art supplies from the ground, reaching up on her tip toes, elongating from the tips of her toes all the way to the tip of her index finger as she reached as high as she could on the wall.

Then, when all the exertion became too much, her pulling the tunic from her body, using it to dab at the sweat glistening on her neck before throwing it to the ground by my friend.

The memory makes my hardness twitch, and I grab it, almost out of comfort.

"Fuck."

My eyes squeeze shut, holding onto the image of her against my closed eyelids.

I'm going up to her, my hands on her neck, sliding down her long, slender arms, her skin so soft under my fingertips.

I can almost feel the heat from her against me as I imagine pulling her close, my lips already on her neck, breathing her in.

The hand around my cock grips tight and moves fast.

Too fast for the slow, burning, sensual thought of her in my mind.

The scene jumps, and suddenly it’s her hand wrapped around me and my hips thrusting into her fist.

"I want you so bad," I whisper both in and out of my daydream, and I strain to hear her tell me she wants me too.

My breath is ragged in my own ears as I can feel it coming. Me. Coming.

"Faster," I tell her in my head. And she complies, her eyes on mine as I feel my body fall over the edge.