Six Weeks

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Each story below is fifty words, no more, no less. The titles do not count towards the word total. Each tells of a memory, connected to another memory.

This is the story of one man and one woman who are together despite the odds, who are not together because of circumstance.

Much thanks to Vic and all the folks at the SDC for their feedback and suggestions.

Welcome Home.

He left the year before, something about Cabo and cocaine and failing grades. I was abroad. He was gone.

We embrace. Thick arms envelop my frame. He rests his chin on my mess of brown waves.

“I missed you,” he murmurs.

I inhale him. He smells like comfort and musk.

First Kiss

It had been a year since her. The her that broke him into tiny pieces.

I ended my relationship the night before.

Cocktails clink around us. The house shudders to the beat of music and drunken revelry.

I press close to him.

We are the only people in our world.


Raindrops splash from the heavens. My bare shoulders prickle, tingle.

The partygoers dart through the gravel parking lot with their bongs and beers, seeking the safety and warmth of the house.

We stand still and lock gazes, lips, hands.

“I like you.” And illegal bahis that was everything there was to say.


He is nervous. He trembles as he strips. Shirt, pants, gray furry hat, socks. His beautiful debris litters my carpet.

We fumble in the dark.

I find a condom. He finds my cunt.

I can feel his heart beating through his cock.

He grunts. Seven minutes.

It’s been a while.


He promised we would talk.

We concentrate on the street instead of each other.

Thin, translucent smoke curls into the crisp air. His menthol is smooth and cool, like autumn. My clove is spicy-sweet; my lips taste like cinnamon.

The clove crackles with each drag.

I never did like silence.



I’m pinned against the door by his body. He claws at my face. Our lips meet in a snarl.

I submit to my passion.

Arms up.

Blistering eyes. I am his plaything for the evening.

The heat between us tickles my skin. October’s cruel winds can’t slip between us.

Hanging Out

I met him by the vents. He was smoking. It was unseasonably cool and I wanted him to warm me.

We sit on my decrepit futon amidst forgotten cans of beer, words unspoken. illegal bahis siteleri I shift uncomfortably. Neither of us can concentrate on our papers.

Sober. Six hours.

No goodnight kiss.


Tonight I failed, called my ex, screamed, cried.

I wanted the last word.

He saves me from the phone and myself. I curl into his arms: I can breathe. Here is safe.

He kisses my chapped lips, washing away my insecurities. He absolves me of my sins with his eyes.


The head of his shaft tickles my sweet spot. I wrap my legs around him, rolling my hips to match his rhythm. We have nearly reached a climax. Our breaths are uneven, ragged.

“Bring me there,” I whisper. He slows.

One more thrust. So close.

“Want to smoke a cigarette?”

Happy Ending

Four hours of sex. Four hours of fucking. Four hours of kissing, groping, licking, humping, fondling, sucking. Four hours of forgotten condoms, deep conversation on baseball and life, foreplay and role-play.

I ride slowly, squeezing my muscles. We are close. We’re barely moving.

We needed four hours to achieve release.


Our post-coital interactions are flirty, touchy, sensual.

I want to sleep in canlı bahis siteleri his burly arms and know he’ll be there when I wake up. I want him to kiss me good morning as he leaves for class.

He won’t. He can’t. It’s too soon; I’m too much.

I’m restless alone.

The Talk

We can’t have rules because he’ll want to break them, he says.

But he is lying to me for the first time.

The rules are hushed, like whispers by lovers between the sheets.

No anal. No burning skin.

And one more.

I am not to fall in love with him.

Red Hot

He stares.

My leather boots reveal my thigh; the plaid miniskirt flirts with my curves.

I am scarlet. I am sex. My boots tickle his calf as I beg for attention.

I won’t get any tonight.

I throw my beer and stumble my way home.

Alone. What else is new?


I am watching him become an alcoholic before my eyes.

He promises to hang out tonight. Just us. A study date. He brings friends and a King Cobra.

His bipolar meds have kicked in. He strangles me.

I want to say goodbye. We kiss instead.

I am a forgiving person.


We aren’t dating, probably won’t, probably shouldn’t. We are scarred, bruised, beaten human beings – he, physically, me, sexually. Both emotionally.

We are different.

But when I melt into his warmth, I forget the wrongs and only feel right.

I should be angry, hurt.

I can’t stop smelling his forgotten shirt.

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