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Friday, 20 June 2008

Fast & Furious

By Marvin Waldman

The fact that I ran over our kid seventeen years ago is not what this story is about. I'm not saying, of course, that running your own kid over is not forever the absolute center of everything you'll ever feel or think or be. It's just that this particular story, this tidbit of my life, isn't about that.

It's about the fact that after these seventeen years, my wife and I are still together. We not only have stayed together, we still go on vacations together. We're on one now, in beautiful, romantic Hawaii.

Actually, technically were not together. I'm at the bar. She's upstairs napping, or making believe she's napping.

It was a strange morning. I mean the bellhop was barely out of the room when she jumped me. I say jumped, without even the slightest exaggeration. She was groping for my zipper, before I had my lei off.

This was particularly surprising in that she hasn't initiated anything physical in, oh say, seventeen years, now. (That's not counting the time she more or less spontaneously hit me in the face with a cast iron pan. That was only once though, early on.)

It's not that she would ever deny me, mind you. Deny me. That sounds rather Victorian, doesn't it? But then again, they didn't have cars back then, did they? Sometimes I wish she just tells me to fuck off, or hits me with the pan again. Better yet, I wish she would remind me how she regularly scolded me for not looking carefully before I backed out of our driveway. But we agreed the story wasn't about that, didn't we?

So, here I was, pants down at my ankles being pushed – no, tackled -- onto the bed, and straddled like a mechanical bull. I couldn't look at her. She was far too beautiful, far too sad, still.

It was over quickly, way too quickly. She moaned, as always, very quietly. And then she rolled off of me, turned on her side and tucked her knees to her chest. I pulled my pants up, and left her for the stool I'm sitting on now.

It's not the sex with him as much as it is the kissing. Ever since the accident, kissing's been out of the question. Yes, we fuck. I can't seem to be able to say no to him. Not in bed, anyway.

Maybe it's not that I can't say no, maybe I don't want to. I don't know. But that doesn't mean I have to kiss him. That doesn't mean I can't do everything to get it over with quickly.

So this morning, after the bellhop left the room, I did not wait for him. I surprised him and went to him first. When his pants were down, I pushed him on the bed and mounted him. I couldn't look at him. He was still so sad, so handsome. My attack worked. Surprising him made it end fast. I came. I always come, goddamnit. But I didn't kiss him. I didn't kiss him.

[EDITORIAL NOTE: A satisfying number of new stories has been arriving at The Elder Storytelling Place this past week and I thank you all. Not that we can't always use more. That's a hint...]

Posted by Ronni Bennett at 02:30 AM | Permalink | Email this post


Got it! Of course, running over your kid is what the story is really about. Very cleverly written, Marvin.

Great style with both points of view expressed. The writing had "layers". Behind the words were VERY deep, raw, enduring emotions.

I got chills reading this. I like the different viewpoints.

It's very sad to me.

Well told ,in a unique way,but so tragic.

Gripping story. I only hope it is a work of fiction.

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