baby_donut

Zoe Alexandra
word of the week- marriage
I go outside. I wrap the condom wrapper and the jelly-like condom up in my crumpled underwear. I am afraid my dog will find it and eat it or bring it to the wrong person. I am scared that I was naked last night. I am scared that I am that kind of girl. I am scared because I like to ride his dick like I am climbing some mountain and I am far away from the lights and the city and the noise. I can't sleep until noon anymore. The coffee is in it's pot so I will drink it.
When it comes to weddings I think of happy brides and fancy dresses; dresses I could never own; ornate dresses with tiny pearls and slinky bodices. I think of the backyard, my sin. Sometimes under his breath I can hear him say, you'll never be that kind of girl and I know what that kind of girl is now. She is going to be his wife. She is going to make him very happy. She will make pancakes at six AM and buy him his favorite kind of underwear, Hanes briefs with an elastic waist.
Sometimes I think the city is bleeding, is poison. I think sometimes that I am poison for touching him the way I do. I think she must have been careful. She must have worn the right skirts and crossed her legs as if on command. I have never seen her. Not in person that is. While he is asleep I have pulled the tattered photograph from his wallet. I have smelled her perfume on it. Eclat D'Arpege.
The lady at the perfume counter lets me smell it. She sprays it onto a little dove shaped piece of paper. She wants me to buy it. She is trying to make a sale. Her white lab coat smells like cornstarch and hairspray. Eclat d'Arpege she says, draws inspiration from the original and reflects the spontaneity of a modern woman and that is when I finally know that I will never be his wife.
In the morning I smoke my lucky cigarette. It's the only one that's ever left over from the night before. His wedding is on a Friday in the first day or the seventh day or one of those day adventists. I think about her name a lot, Charlotte. I say it different ways, sometimes as if she is a royal princess, sometimes like I'm scolding her.Charlotte, I say You've been a very bad girl. It's not that I don't like Charlotte. I think Charlotte is pretty close to being the perfect woman or whatever that means. I guess I'm not wife material. I used to blame it on crooked teeth and bad luck stuff but really I think it's just something inside of me that I try to hide so hard but everyone sees. I almost want to say nevermind if someone tries to bring it up or I think that they maybe see it. I guess this isn't about Charlotte anyway. Charlotte isn't a person yet. She's only a picture.
He doesn't talk about her much. By her, I mean, Charlotte but she is there, all the time in the tiny pauses when he is about to speak, then doesn't and when he wants to say things that mean anything personal about us. I don't think there is an us. I think I made us up. I think I am a child trying to be a brave adult. I like the way his body smells like salt and fish and probably God if I knew what God smelled like. Sometimes he puts a finger inside me, sometimes two, or three, or four. I ask him if Charlotte lets him do that and he kind of just lays his back down and doesn't say anything. That is my answer. I don't need to know any more. Charlotte will be his wife and she doesn't like fingers in her girl parts.
I drink the coffee from the pot again. It tastes cold. It has been sitting out for hours and the milk swirls around in it like stagnant water. I want to eat the cold salad from the refrigerator but it is just too cold. Everything is too cold. I think I may be freezing to death. When I close my eyes I can still see Charlotte's. They gleam like giant orbs of light in my memory and I cannot make them go away.


ps. I don't think my editing was stellar this time but here is the final story for my writing teacher, Jamie.


pps. help with a title would be good too. xo