My Quirky Novel - Chapter 1 - a love story

blah blah blah, just brainstorming words


I'm teething on lights outside in the parking lot, the day-time is a sickening well of pressure and hot. Everything clings to me. My shirt, the smell of smoke, the heavy burning dark lump in my lungs.

The sun sits up in his sky and plays with matches. He burns all the little ants that run around the earth, he's a kid with a magnifying glass and a feeling of entitlement. I want to lay outside naked in the sun and let his gentle fingers touch me.

My dick starts to get hard at the thought. I'm laying outside naked covered in sweat. My body hair is already matted to me and Lee is there. Her pubic bone covered in an auburn swatch of short, visible curls.

Soon I'll move on to bigger and better things, I say aloud. No one listens or hears or maybe even cares. They probably think I'm sharing their dream; get the fuck out of this stupid mindless middle class minimum wage monotony and into something better and bigger. Let my legs stretch out a bit.

I call it big fish syndrome.

But no, I don't got it that bad yet. I don't got it at all. I'm clean and healthy as hell, ever been and ever will be. I'm fifteen years younger than all these fucks and I know it's a waste of dream time. No, I'll buy a pack of filters when I head home.

Irony melts the thoughts at the beginning of my brain. I work an hour for the money to buy one pack, and each pack takes 30 minutes off my life.


Lee stomps on my toes every night when I get home. She digs the balls of her feet into the tops of mine, stands up on tip-toes (as she calls them) and firmly, with such finality to it, places her tongue inside my mouth.

She whispers how cold the kitchen tiles feel on her bare legs when she sat down to fill the cat's water. She softly puts her knee just below my groin and she takes a cigarette from me. The only time she smokes in the house is when she gets really horny or really sad.

Those days all she does is lay on the couch and watch trash tv- the montell williams show is her favorite. She can't try since the water got shut off, so she sits and put my hand on the lump in her throat and try and work it over and soften it.

She wears an old, over-large long sleeved shirt. It hangs from her body like vines of ivy spiraling up a decaying chimney. I can see her rib-cage stretching for the hell of it beneath thinning skin. They pop and creak then quake like plate tectonics as she twists around beneath her covers.

She invites me beneath those sheets on the old leather couch her parents gave her when she moved out 5 years ago. Her body is spoiled by inside air, she is accustomed to the cool of the tile in the kitchen. Her limbs are lithe and pale. A little bit of her stomach skin peaks out at me; the rift where her pants part from her shirt, the way she lays, one hand above head, the other curled beneath breast, tugs and contorts the fabric of the too large shirt. Her left shoulder lays exposed, draped quietly with the slow sloping curls of her unwashed hair. Eyes quiver and she spreads her legs, her long denim shorts tighten around her thighs, the only place her bones seem invisible, only sacks of fat dangling from limp muscles.

In this light it betrays her. She looks beautiful and I realize that she needs my body and I need her mind. I lay down on top of her, most of my weight in my shoulders and I start crying.

Heavy sobs and heaving for air sounds fill the room. Lee moves to sit and I bury my face deep in her lap, my nose dripping yellow water. She doesn't say anything, or maybe she does. I don't stop crying to ask her repeat herself. Her voice doesn't crack at all inside the quiet room where I think she lives most of her life.

When we eat I refuse to have any, feeling wrapped up and selfish for buying the new pack of smokes. It's one of our last meals, we have to ration.

We feed on one anothers' bodies later in the dark before she goes to fill out the grave-yard shift. Lee is starving and she lets my affection fill her up as much as the food I go without and I fill up on guilt for treating her bad. Tomorrow I'll figure something out, but lately it's all been bullshit about the sun and the moon.

I'm not a fucking writer, I whisper to her when she leaves.

I love you, too. She says back, and it crushes me so hard and fast that I don't really sleep but just shiver under the covers and wait for the one hour when she gets back before I wake up, and she slides into me sideways and we touch half-clothed bodies in the utter darkness, no sex no blood flow, just full of love and longing for more time. She puts her mouth on my neck, hunger palpable in the way she teethes my skin and I wish I could fill up her collapsing stomach.