He pushed me up against the bricks behind the Sears house he grew up in.
“You,” he hiss-moaned into the back of my ear. He dragged his fingernails up my thigh to the ridges of my skirt.
“You have to stop fucking with people so much.”
I felt dangeours. I looked up into his eyes and held back spouts of girlish laughter.
“Oh!”
I tipped by head back, my ratted hair clawed up into the bricks.
“More! More!”
The giggles escaped and his violent and freshly drunk hand twisted it’s way up the rest of my skirt. I winced and my knees buckled and wilted.
I said his name, but felt the same suffocating numbness that I felt every time I was touched when I was seventeen. The night air still felt good.
“Oh, no…”
His fingers crawled in tighter. My head jerked back harder.
“Say ‘more’ again.”
“It hurts.”
My knees went slack and he followed me deep into his mother’s flower bed. As he touched, I rolled the dirt through my fingers and cried my eyes out into his shoulder.
“Say ‘more’.”
The flowers ripped up from the earth and lay across my moon struck face. I smelled their newness, their virginity. I wondered if it was a real tragedy that they had been taken so young.
He was done and I sat up.
I said his name as I shook earth from the insides of my legs. “Do you think that other people get sad about things like flowers?”
He looked at my quielty.
“No,” he whispered. “Just girls like you.”
