A Poem by Marissa Padilla
When she kissed him on the cheek that night, he was taken aback by how much it stung. Her lips, while warm and passionate in their task, lacked a certain emotional attachment that he now realized had been taken for granted all those years.
When she asked if she could kiss him on the mouth, he immediately shouted—yes, shouted, in the passenger seat of the dark, parked car—“No!”
Her eyes turned downward, and for a brief moment he took satisfaction in the fact that his adamancy had hurt her. A small respite, for soon he heard his voice say, “But I’ll give you a hug.”
Oh, why was he such a coward when it came to women? Other men came, saw, and conquered. He came, saw, and acquiesced. Every goddamn time.
He was hugging her now, like an idiot, feeling her soft body press into his chest. He tried to maneuver himself to avoid any breastual contact, but quickly found it was inevitable no matter the angle.
The hug itself seemed to be a thinly veiled metaphor for rough, passionate intercourse—the kind where handfuls of hot flesh overflow the bounds of sweaty fingertips,
With guttural grunts and resonant moans
The neighbors banging on the wall
And a shared look of pure mischief
Because they have no idea that we’re just getting started.
He didn’t want to let go. He turned his face into her soft hair, the familiar fruity scent made him ache.
Why did things have to change?
Why couldn’t he just slip his hand up her thigh and fuck her, right now, in the passenger seat of the dark, parked car?
But the prospect of giving her any amount of pleasure filled him with dread
It was over.
He removed himself from her embrace and
before she could even finish the word goodbye
shut the car door behind him.