This is a great little story written by a friend of mine.
The background:
Matt (my friend) is dating a girl Elizabeth — who is very good looking.
Matt’s friend Aaron (not me) tried to sweet talk Elizabeth — and Matt decided to write about it.
The following is a very well-written, funny short story about the events which occured (immensely exaggerated) from the perspective of Aaron, Matt’s friend.
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I always could tell a girl raised on manna and cornbread by the way she fit into a pair of pants, and this one was curvier than a Candyland footpath.
She was standing on the corner of Money and Heaven when I saw her. That glittering oasis, tricked out in cursed Incan gold and slave-woven linen, made those old Chuck Taylor’s seem to have a mind of their own, like I was magnetized or something.
Libidos aren’t made of metal, but I sure was drawn (and my good sense quartered). Before I knew it, I’d stopped before her as she leaned against a light pole, hanging on the cold metal with her arms above her, brown and luxurious in the sun like a desert cat.
After a few seconds, she decided to realize I was there and coolly asked me, “Got the time, sailor?”
“Uh, no.”
“No, what?”
“No, ma’am.” She smiled and looked at her watch again. Somebody had gotten a mouthful sassy attitude from all that spoilin’ the Good Lord had given her. Trust me, you could tell. It was obvious this young lady had had a few extra birthday parties at Chuckie Cheese’s. And a different slap bracelet for every day of the month to boot. On Leap Year.
Elegant like an idol, her curvy silhouette twisted back away from me as she looked up the street for a way out of the conversation. It gave me the impression that a whole lot of gentlemen had melted down their Golden Calves to buy this smart young filly a nice time at the Ruth’s Chris. Even a Yankee could recognize that sort of sophistication when he saw it, and you could see it. Like I said, trust me. “Sure do look pretty today, ma’am,” I stumbled on.
She brushed some bangs out of her eyes and took another look at me. Sweat beaded on my forehead–why was it so warm today?–so I took out m’handkercheif and wiped the mist from my brow where the sun had been beating it like a white anvil for what seemed like several minutes now–I think it was the sun anyway– the effect of all this being a smoldering glow which began to settle there and promise that Aloe Vera was in my horoscope (as if that were any surprise under a gaze like this, hot and relentless like the sweltering fires of racial injustice) until finally she asked, “Where are you from?”
“Chattanooga, ma’am. You?”
“Oh, just . . . ” I could hear it coming: some place in the lap of civilization, where the earth met the sky, where tawny handmaidens still waived palm branches over delicate figures clad in ocelot furs, ” . . . Edwardsville.”
“Ma’am?”
“I’m from Edwardsville, Illinois.” She sort of waved her hand generally toward the North.
That wave must have looked like a “Long time, no see!” sort of thing because just then several cars screeched to a halt. Their drivers lowered windows to yell over one another, “Need a lift, Miss?” She shook her head, and they each began to pull away reluctantly, still looking at her in their mirrors. One fellow nearly ran over a jaywalking mailman who immediately got himself a cursing out. This young lady, may she live forever, had probably been responsible for a number of wrecks, maybe even that seven car pileup Brother Thomas had initiated last week in front of the Five and Dime. Woe to the stumbling blocks, indeed!
“Illinoise, huh?”
“No,” the girl said turning back to me. She lifted her chin and looked me up and down. Her neck made a sort of alabaster bend as she stopped and smiled. I think she knew it. “You look familiar, boy. Have we met before?”
“I was just thinking the same thing myself. But I’d remember that. Maybe I’ve seen your picture somewhere. In the papers. No, in a movie! That’s it. You’ve been in the movies, haven’t you, Miss?”
She sort of kicked at my shin. Not hard, just enough to make contact. Just to see if I were kidding. I wasn’t, and she let out a sultry laugh. The Mississippi roared in the distance. “No, I haven’t been in any movies. You’re a flirt, aren’t you, boy. I bet you’re good with all those girls in Chattanooga. I can just see ‘em now, chomping and licking all over you just like you were a slice of chewing wax.”
“No, ma’am.” I put my hands in my pockets. “I don’t have no girl. Just a big family and a couple of friends. What about you?”
“Nope. No girlfriend for me, either.” I blushed. The very thought! She looked right into my flushed face, and I thought someone must have taken me out of myself and hung me on the wall at a gallery. And this insidious onlooker just smiled, just mocked the rough fabric of my helpless art, its theme obvious, its exposition laughable, its subject barbaric. I was an object. “What can I call you, boy? Dick? Charlie? No, how about Felix–O. Felix Culpa.”
“Um, my name’s Aaron Shepherd. It’s Jewish and English,” I added. It seemed like a pretty good joke.
“You keep sheep or something?” she asked unimpressed. Then she amended, “On second thought, I think you’re probably a wolf. You look hungry, Aaron Shepherd.” The girl paused. “What is it I can do for you?” A gentle breeze punctuated those words, which hung on the air like they’d been published in sunlight. The breeze cooled nothing, though. It only stayed a teasing second to play across her body and blow away, leaving a few lucky strands of hair clinging to pursed lips. She brushed the hair back behind her ear where it belonged. Unfortunately, all this unfolded too quickly to enjoy. The only evidence the breeze had ever been was an opiate haze that had filled the air. The fragrance seemed to wrap its lithe arms around me and press milky words into my ear, words that ought not to be spoken on Sunday.
“You like wolves?” I ventured before I knew what was good for me.
She didn’t miss a beat: “If they know how to behave themselves. I keep a little kennel stocked most of the time.” She looked up and down the street as she said this, like she were making some sort of offer that she didn’t want overheard. It made me uncomfortable: the breeze and that fragrance and the way she was staring at me now. I suddenly wasn’t sure who had approached whom. The curvy thing asked again, “What is it I can do for you, Aaron Shepherd?”
The answer clung to a forbidden bough right there in front of me, ready to be plucked. I didn’t want to be a god, but this juicy, seductive plumb with her arms wrapped around that light pole behind her head wouldn’t stop blinking at me, those long lashes casting their dreadful spell of pleasure until I thought I had finally given in. Every capillary in my body pulsed with warm fantasies, and I knew what I wanted.
Then, just as quickly as I’d seen her, she was climbing into a red Toyota Camry. It was wrong, this tender desert goddess cooped up in some loser’s car like new wine in an old wine skin. The door slammed, and I could hear a man’s voice through the open window, “Don’t singe the upholstery, Beautiful. Hold on, let me move my backpack. Oh, hey, what’s up Aaron. Didn’t know you were in town!”
“Hey, Matt. Yeah, I’m in town,” I trailed off as they pulled away without waiting for my answer. The car disappear around a corner– back into whatever exotic, uncharted dream it had come from. Someplace where desert flowers grew in coffee mugs on window sills. Someplace where undiscovered fish rollicked in backyard fountains. Someplace. Someplace I had never been.
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November 26th, 2009 
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