momebie | I don't have any idea what this is.

Original fiction.
941 words.

Sal's close cropped hair is sticking out at all angles. She's naked and lying on her side, facing away from Joanie, all but pressed into the wall that butts up against the side of Joanie's twin size bed. The top sheet is draped across the peak curve of her hip, exposing the barest hint of Sal's bottom. Joanie is sitting in her desk chair, her toes digging into the mattress as they bridge the short distance from chair to bed. There's a sketch pad lying open on her knees and she's absentmindedly sketching the dip of Sal's waist with long lines that echo the ticks of the wall clock. Tickshhhh. Tickshhhh. Tickshhhh. It's the closest thing to a prayer Joanie knows.

“I can't decide if that is flattering or creepy,” Sal says. She rolls onto her back and yawns, wriggling down the bed to give herself more room to stretch.

“I'm not designing a coat made of your skin, if that helps.” Joanie looks down at the paper and does her best not to watch the way Sal's skin stretches against the movement. She's leaning close to the sketch pad now, starting in on Sal's tattoo from memory. It's a large depiction of Maya Shakti, two of her four arms stretching up to the sky. When Sal wears shirts with low back collars you can see the splayed hands and multi-colored bangle bracelets peeking out from under the material. Sometimes, when Joanie notices this, it takes her breath away. It's the same when Sal leans forward and her shirt tail pulls up, showing just the foot Maya Shakti is balancing on in her dance. The toes are arched into the invisible dirt, giving the tattoo a sense of gravity it might not otherwise have. This is the first time Joanie's seen the whole tattoo.

“That's good, I think you'd need to skin a few more people in order to get enough material to cover you.”

“Ha,” Joanie says. “Just for that I'm having cookies for breakfast. And I'm going to really enjoy them.”

“It's your cellulite.”

“Damn straight.” Joanie keeps sketching. She doesn't want to look Sal in the eye. The minute she does the fantasy she's teetering on the edge of will become a reality, and she's not sure she can handle it. She doesn't know how to say 'I had sex with you because you reminded me of someone I wanted to have sex with and could never claim for my own' without sounding like a complete tool.

She's pretty sure it's because there is no way to say such a thing without sounding like a complete tool.

Instead she says “I wanted to trace your tattoo, but I didn't want to wake you. This seemed like the best alternative.”

“It's something, isn't it? I like to call it 'The Folly of '07'. I used to have a nasty urge to express my uniqueness. It had the added bonus of pissing off my mother. She didn't speak to me for a week. It was blissful.”

“I've seen one like it before.”

“You mean I'm not unique? If I was a more sensitive person, statements like that would crush my delicate soul.”

“Bitch please, the only sensitive thing about you is your left nipple.” Joanie looks up finally and reaches forward.

Sal is propping herself up with her right elbow. She closes her eyes as Joanie strokes the nipple in question with the tip of her eraser. “If you really meant that you'd be over here doing it with your tongue.”

“You talk too much.”

“I know, but do I ever really say anything?”

“Is there anything to say?”

“Come down out of your cave, Zarathustra.” Sal's voice is low, and she's half singing the line. The last syllable draws out until it breaks in half, thin and fragile, like tautly pulled taffy. “Somewhere in the world, right this second, a baby was born with HIV, a hundred birds just dropped dead out of the sky with no noticeable catalyst, and an earthquake is shaking a poverty stricken country to its foundations. And in the midst of all of this, all I can really bring myself to ask is whether or not you'd consider fucking me again. I think that makes me a bad person.”

“Just because a matter isn't life or death doesn't mean it's not legitimate,” Joanie said. “Besides, I was wondering the same thing.”

“If you would deign to fuck yourself?”

“The idea that we're separate entities is just an illusion, is it not? If I fuck you, is it all that different from fucking me?”

“You have been communing with Maya Shakti. That is decidedly creepy.”

“Well then, our disappointments will only add stress to the world. We are undoubtedly making that earthquake worse by sitting here pondering it.”

Sal sits upright and crosses her legs. “Joanie, you are a horrible person.”

“So I've been told,” she says. Joanie drops the sketch pad on the floor next to the chair and re-situates her feet so that they're resting on either side of Sal's knees. As she moves the she can see Sal's gaze travel slowly up her calves and thighs, looking over her with a hunger only known to those who have all of their other needs fulfilled. A hunger of the soul. A yearning to be touched, to be debauched. She places the pencil eraser in her mouth and chews on it softly. “So I have been told.”

This entry was written for Topic 8: First World Problem at