Black Eyed Susan

Black Eyed Susan

By

Matt McGuire

Damn. You left Charter and I chased you to Winston Salem in a blinding gale on bad whiskey and a quarter tank of gas. I waited by your window just beneath the dead marigolds. I waited, smoked, got four sheets to the wind and wound down on your lawn in the cool pre-spring sunlight that crept through the clouds and gave a golden luster to my five-day-old stubble. I waited.

You came home around 6, slammed the door to your blue-gray Volvo and looked at me stunned for a moment, then suspicious, then sultry and your gaze said come on up--you ascended your spiral staircase with a shake that made me wanna shiver.

We kissed hard, fast and furiously against the door. I flung you to the couch where you removed your black silk skirt and heels saying only “Not this time, not this time” over and over again. I entered you from the rear with your dark burgundy bra twisted round my bloody knuckles and your matching panties flung to the end of the room somewhere in the corner where a pussy purred silently between your moans and the slap, slap, slapping of skin on skin.

With the skirmish over and a flag of truce flying high we smoked hash in the twilight while Ms. Merchant sang of belated wives and autumn breezes that blew through the hair of vestals somewhere left of Lesbos. We cuddled, yes, for what seemed like a season and then I left you china-eyed and crying knowing you’d do it for real this time.

That was the last time I ever saw you.