by Paul de Denus
So yeah, we were friends, she a bit younger, a naïve doll-face with breasts that ran around her sweater whenever she moved, which I suppose was the initial attraction for most of us that hounded after her. She was seeing an older guy, a lawyer who decided his law would be abusive, slapped her with bruises and nightmares as part of his practiced sex routine, hammered her self-worth into self-doubt and she’d call me for advice as if I were some kind of friendly lawyer myself with constructive answers. I’d suggest she either dump the prick or kill him but she would always go back, believing she could fix him.
We’d hang out a bit, a couple beers after work and, man, I felt top-dog lopping and laughing around with her, pretending she was mine, and we’d laugh about it but she’d already decided it would be just friends for us though that didn’t stop me from trying. And well, the day did come when the trying stopped. After another battle, I answered her call. She told me she wasn’t going to put up with him anymore, that the next time it would be over and we drank some beers to that decision and I caressed her puffy face and when she asked me to stay the night, man, I was so okay with that.
It was snowing and I could see it shedding past the street light outside the bedroom window, disappearing into the darkness and I spooned in behind her, a sneaky hand stealing inside the open shirt enhancing my already heightened arousal, but she didn’t say anything. It was the moment I slipped a hand under the pillow and touched the cold, heavy hammer that my woody flat-lined. I haven’t slept a wink.