Julie Come Lately

Julie Come Lately

by

Matt McGuire

A cool gray iron clouded day turned damp charcoal with you on my couch recounting me your sorrows, a relict of adolescence, as I kissed and bit your shoulder. Between the silver rings in your ears churned all the violence of a dispossessed Thetis, coupled with the calculating idiocy of a small town bank clerk weathering a recession—you ranted and weighed dispassionately each shekel of exposed flesh, expectantly assuming a return on your investment of words, time, and resources. Your feet propped lazily, your bulk positioned comfortably between the cushions, my disdain for your monologue climaxed and I burst your shirt open at the neck. Your large, amber breasts spilt milk heavily outwards as I caught them up openhanded and breathed,

"shhhhh..."

“...and then that motherfehcker...”

I kissed you quiet, my hand around your neck, silencing opposition. I thrust my remaining fingers into your jeans, and as the blue neon numbers changed on the wall opposite you came to see things my way. You kissed me below and with a grimace I ripped your blue Riders down and cast them across the table. Over the arm, pale waves dammed against my pelvis, clutching the pillow, you cried finality as seed met cervix. Gasping, Marlboro tar breaths, a slap on the bottom, and the rain began in earnest as you resumed vilifying those faceless blackguards lurking in the recesses of your past.

I lit up, crossed my feet on the cherry, and blew smoke rings at the ceiling with which your curses played hoops.

I recharged, and drowsily envisioned a panoply of cameras filming my own, private episode of Springer meets Strindberg.