On Saturday I enjoyed a two-hour writing session at Tully's. I try to fit in at least three of those a week. I worked on my everlasting manuscript: The Goodness of Meredith Beam. Here's the scene I wrote:
(Meredith, my protagonist, has run away with her husband's brother, Brian, who both repulses and attracts her. This girl clearly has serious issues.)
“I’m so happy you came back to me,” he mumbles, pawing at my t-shirt. “So happy.”
I try to bat him away, but he is too out of it to notice. He comes down on me hard and presses his lips to mine. His tongue, slimy with alcohol and scant oral hygiene, fills my mouth, tries to trace my teeth, tries to move nimbly, but feels like a skinned rodent.
Finally I am able to jerk my head to the left and sputter, “I didn’t come back here for the sex, okay? We need to talk.”
He starts grinding against me, fully clothed, saying my name over and over, stroking my hair.
“Brian!” I grunt. “Stop.”
I think that I say No. More than once. I don’t remember being turned on or whetted by his drunken fumbling. But afterward, I’m not positive. I can’t recall exactly what words came from me or how my body reacted to his groping.
In the morning I greet him with petrified silence. I sit on the porch step, sipping my coffee.
When he comes out and spits into the grass, lights a cigarette, lolls on the overgrown lawn and looks up at the sky, I say nothing.
He smokes until the filter is all that’s left and pinches it out with his fingers. “Can I have a swallow of that joe?” he asks.
My eyes burn. My throat aches. I’m afraid that if I answer him, I will start crying. I look at the cedar bush that flanks one side of the house. I pinch the bridge of my nose and shake my head.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, buttressing himself up on one elbow. “Did something happen in Lansing?”
I stand and go inside. Predictably, I shower. While I do, I lean my dripping body over the Linoleum chasm between the tub and vanity to swig my coffee.
Steam has filmed the mirror, condensed on my cup’s handle. I am able to maintain my grip for several gulps, then a careless lunge and the mug slides through my fingers like a slinky reptile. It smashes to the floor, a dark puddle of coffee studded with ceramic chunks. It begins soaking into the folded towel we use as a bathmat. I swipe it aside and am crouched, my nipples pressed over the cold tub rim, collecting as many pieces as I can when a draft creeps across the floor, winds around my arms. I glance up to see Brian standing in the doorway, gripping the knob.
We both look at my cupped hand filled with mug shards. Conditioner runs off my head and down my back. Over the water, I say, “Everything’s fine.”
“Will you be done soon?” He asks. “I need to get in here.”
“I’ll hurry,” I say.
When I stand, my knees shake. I set the soapy shards on the corner of the tub, jerk the curtain closed and, under the pounding water, attempt to warm myself again.
Copyright Me 2008