I left our last conversation in awe, and with a good bit of disbelief. We had talked about his collection of short stories and poems and his process of selecting which ones should and shouldn’t go into his book. One story in particular stood out to me. He had apparently fantasized a romantic encounter with me, and wrote about it.
In the past, we may have exchanged the occasional hug or high five here and there. There were times when a glance would almost turn into a gaze. It seemed like we both thought the other would look away and ended up locking eyes for a half-beat too long. I have found myself with him, wondering where everyone else went and how the group discussion dwindled down to a conversation between the two of us. We were friends.
We were acquaintances.
Well, somewhere between the two I guess.
There was nothing particularly romantic about our relationship. I wouldn’t even necessarily say that I was attracted to him. I wouldn’t necessarily say that I wasn’t either. In those gatherings, if he would have in any way tested my boundaries, I would have pushed them. Ok, now that I think of it, maybe there was something there, something hidden that neither one of us was willing to scratch the surface of and uncover. When he asked me to house sit for him I should have said no.
I had always been curious about his books. The stories that he would tell me, while editing out the vulgarities, sounded almost magical. His writing seemed to come from a place that was hidden from our normal conversations. It’s hard to believe that they come from the same mind. Or at least that’s how it had been described to me.
The tour ended in the living room where a box overflowing with books grabbed my attention. He went on about a storm and his flight and blah blah blah blah blah. What was up with that box? So many copies of the same book. It clicked when he asked, “you good?” My lip forced it’s way between my teeth and seemed to bite itself as I nodded.
He raised his eyebrow as if prepping to answer a question, a question that I didn’t ask. He didn’t have to say it. I knew the moment he left and I took that book into my hands that it was the one. He probably didn’t think that I would read it, and likely assumed that I had forgotten about any connections between it and myself. I hadn’t. And before his car had left the driveway I had already drew a bath and found my chapter.
Beatrice had all of my features, my same job, my pets, her and the main character James had even shared some of our same conversations. Their meet-cute and the whole ‘earn your happy ending’ story was really romantic. I can’t believe that he thought about me in this way. The sex scene, let me tell you, I really couldn’t believe that he thought about me in that way.
Thank you for letting me use your picture for this post!
I took the book with me from the bathtub to the couch. I couldn’t put it down. I was Beatrice. Beatrice was me. And she was a dirty girl. It was all there on that page, in detail. The hair pulling, ass slapping, side squeezing, nipple nibbling, soul gazing adventure was there. It was hot. Every stroke, every adjustment, every curse, and every moan. The more I read about what was being done to Beatrice the more I wanted it to be me. After all, my body was hers, and it wanted me to continue reading.
My body. Lips parted, nipples raised, stomach trembling as fingers passed over.
My naked body. Sprawled out on his couch, still damp from the bath, growing wetter by the moment.
My soft naked body. Book in hand, eyes hanging on to each word, ignoring the phone’s notification heckle, ears… Alerted, at the sound of his keys in the door.