Fiction By Connor Rodenbeck
I keep my plaid socks on because I am not sure if my bare skin is allowed here. He sits across from me, hairy legs crossed and barefoot. The bed is without a frame, so we are sinking, sinking, sinking into the shag carpet like quicksand; we don’t want to, but I don’t mind the act of falling. It makes me feel like I’m going somewhere. The walls around us are beige, sprayed with thick, colorless oatmeal, and wrap us in a pentagon of minimalism. I know his nose rings and bleached hair crave more than these walls. Tonight, they are adorned in a red-orange glow cast from the lamp on the nightstand. On it are two glasses of wine, his white and mine red because he likes sugar and I crave a tartness that makes my jaw pop.
We don’t speak, and the silence is unsettling because I can only focus on his breathing. So I gaze at the Bible scriptures tattooed on his arm, and I wonder what they mean: did angels float down, clouds still knotted and wrapped around their luminescent skin, and embroider heaven on him? Or are they God’s teeth marks after a strenuous battle with faith? Or are they simply contradictions, the kind I think he likes or perhaps is frightened of? When I look back up at his face, I find him looking into my eyes. His are downcast, like drops of rain about to drip down a foggy window, but they aren’t really wet at all; in fact, they are steaming, as if they are pots of tea boiling on a stove, earthy and citrus notes wafting through a spout and filling the air with an invitation for milk, sugar, honey.
I have always imagined that his mouth tastes like slices of oranges, ripe, subtle, and lovely all at once, but surely the sheets between us would never flatten enough for me to squeeze the sun out of his lips to taste. Somehow, his supple lips do indeed fall onto mine like a round tangerine blown off its branch by an afternoon breeze. We kiss slow and then faster, faster, faster until his breaths are hurricanes. His T-shirt is tight, like a second skin, and I press my palm on his ribs in an attempt to find a place to hold. I decide to lift the stretchy fabric over his head and throw it to the side so I can wrap my fingers around his jutting bones while his rip currents and torrential rains drench me in nervous sweat and cologne and saliva. He pushes me, not hard like his kisses, and I lie on my back, legs wrapping around his torso as he plunges his tongue into my mouth. I’ve reached the eye of his storm, where the redness and doctrine and quicksand and angels and wine and saliva all mix into one sweet release; I’ve dived into an oasis I’ve long wanted to enter. But my eyes shoot open when he suddenly lifts away, without a word. In a second, he is off of me and on his feet. I prop myself up onto my elbows and look over at the doorway; he glances back—briefly, sadly—before striding out of the room and leaving me with that red glow and an aching bareness not even clothes can cover.
As I lie on this mattress, I begin to levitate. I let the glow around me drape heat on my skin as I catch my breath. I close my eyes, wait for him, but he doesn’t reenter. I open them and look around me: palm trees drooping, dirty waves flooding the gutters, debris scattered, lonely whimpers. These tidal waves have destroyed everything, these winds have swirled into catastrophe. But the sun is still shining. Its rays smell of citrus and cinnamon. I see a hand reach out from the light. I take it, and then I am plunged in reverse, spinning and shaking until the palm trees stand again and the homes are rebuilt. I am pulled up into the light, and suddenly I see him again. Can I lie with you? No, the mattress is too sunk. So I stand and take his hand, lift it to my lips. He must have been peeling a tangerine because his nails have the sun underneath them.
