Caleb Orion

Anne gasped.
He was almost inside her and she felt a dull pain, hard throbbing like a pressure gauge too tight around her arm. In stress she felt the muscles contracting and the pressure increased. She wished he would move fast instead of slow like she had asked.
But then he was in, and he said so, but she knew.
He moved only in small prods, aware of her clenching jaw and her sharp noises and her hand pressed against his pelvis. She didn’t even realize it was there, that she was pushing him away but also letting him in.
There were motions, movements, waves and seas and tides. She felt him squeezing her arm, tighter for a second and then for even briefer it was as if his soul had disappeared. He returned and his grip released and for the first time since she had unhooked her belt she looked him in the eyes.
He forced a smile, he was scared of some accidental nature. She tried to smile back, and felt around for her underwear.
He had it in his hands the moment her fingers touched the sheets, and for the first time he knew her.
And she could feel him still, and that part of her he had touched still burned, maybe even itched, and it was uncomfortable. She rubbed herself, but it was internal.

And then it was clearer, like a solution being run through a centrifuge.
She felt his heart beating though he stood against the door jamb, pulling at the prophylactic, trying not to upend it onto her carpet.
She could smell glycerin and latex. She could smell sweat, and then behind that something sticky. Sweet. Something solid was there, obvious in its nature, a smell that held steadfast when even the tributaries of water beaded down her bare skin.
And then that night, her head in profile against the pillow, she lay awake with that thought in her head. She twisted under the covers, knots and pretzels forming around her. Her pillow held reservoir for his scent, the soap he washed with.

The next day he called her cell phone, he jumbled the words. She said sure and soon enough she was sitting in the passenger seat of his car, going ninety down a twisting forest road. The tires gripped the tarmac, and everything swayed in the turbulence they left behind.
He pulled up to a stop sign, using his left hand to shift the car, not wanting to let atoms be atoms between their palms. They were off.
The car descended into a valley, and at the bottom he turned onto a dirt road. Rocks and gravel clicked and thrummed against the bottom of the car. She could feel the large pieces striking below her feet. He drove slow around a few pot holes, taking time to make sure the ride was smooth.
And then they arrived at the lake. They were the only ones there. A rope swing hung out over a large rock. A few bottles and cans lay near a fire pit like used wet dreams. Roots curved in and out of the earth where weeds no longer grew from being trod on.
He grabbed her arm before she could run on ahead and tried to kiss her. She pulled free, and giggled towards the water. He got towels from the back seat and followed her.
The water made goose bumps on their skin.
They swam naked in the lily pads, tugging at each others limbs and holding their feet above the soggy floor. He gripped her around the stomach, feeling his fingers dip in and out of her belly button, his hand following her patterns and shapes. She swam away, enjoying the sun above and the warm pockets underneath. They could have fallen asleep forever.
Eventually they sat in his car, the doors open, their underwear too wet to wear. They didn’t speak much, but he wanted to touch her skin. He ran a hand along her leg and closed his eyes as the wind blew past them.
Then he turned the key and they left.

They went to his house, watching for figures in the dark windows before lurching into the entryway. They hung up their underwear in the sun and they made sandwiches.

He drove her home, his fingers lacing between hers. They played music loud, the windows open, dusk air flowing across their skin.
They arrived at her house, navigating the descending driveway. They got out of the car and he walked her up the steps to her door. She hugged him goodbye and he kissed her on the forehead. They held onto each other as if this was the last time they would ever be together.
And then she disappeared into her house.

On the way back to his car he stopped to pick at the rust that was forming along the wheel wells. The black paint chipped and stained his fingers.

Summer ended. Fall arrived. As fall ended, the wind picked up. Daylight grew scarce. They saw less of each other. Everything grew cold.

He leaned against a pillow with his arm around her. She leaned against him, holding one of his hands in hers. Her fingers traced the wrinkles and lines on his palm. She ran her index finger along his lifeline.
He felt the air between them, layers of molecules bricking up between the fabric of their clothes. Atomic weight. She felt him urge to free himself. She felt the urge to run away, herself.
There was a dull pain, throbbing in his stomach. There was very little excitement left in their cause. They no longer felt rebellious, and there was nothing they could die for.
He eventually pushed her off of him. She looked up in dismay.
She asked him about friends, about life, about love and future.
“There is only one thing that’s important,” he said.
There was a pause.
“What the fuck does that mean?” she asked.
“Read the title of the story,” he replied. She went back to the beginning of the short story and read it.
“That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever done. There is absolutely no point in looping back to a title just to make some sort of statement or point. Just say, ‘Hey, at least we tried, baby, but it’s over.’ Stop being clever. Anyway, we’ve been broken up for what, half a year now? Get over it already, move on, find someone new. You couldn’t say goodbye then, when you really wanted to, but when I said it, when I put it out there that we should part ways, you fought it. It’s what you want, isn’t it? Just say it, just say it’s over.”
“Ok. It’s over. We tried, but it’s not working out.”
“Good, the door’s right over there.”