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I see her best when I'm not looking at her. An image drifts unpredictably into the corner of my eye like a reflection on a pond. Snippets of a memory, a moment shared, play like a vintage movie on a foggy screen in my head and she surprisingly comes into focus. I both cherish and dread these unexpected vignettes as they leave me intoxicated with her presence yet somehow still empty beyond words.
But just as my love for Beth heeds no boundaries, these capricious interruptions prove indifferent to my desires and I am left to their mercy. I do not complain. I instead surrender to the emotional flood evoked by the shadowy dreams of our past.
*****
Afternoon sunlight dances through the wavering leaves of the old sycamore, painting a glittering mosaic on Beth's naked body. I watch her pale breasts rise and fall from my position beside her on the thick quilt, propped on my elbows as the breeze tickles my bare ass. She appears to have drifted off to sleep and I am left to my memories of the longing I feel each time I stare into her arresting blue eyes.
Echoes of my recent orgasm still ring through my body and yet I ache to touch her still. Only minutes have passed since Beth uncoiled her legs from mine and rolled off my sweating body but it feels like days and I long to again feel her tender touch on my breast, to have the taste of her sex on my lips, to hear her soft moan of pleasure.
My shadow crosses her face as I hover over her and gently lower my nipple, dragging it across her cheek. The hint of her smile brings out the cute little dimple that haunts my dreams and I fight to control my urge to move too quickly.
I allow my nipple to slide across her face and linger at her lips while her tongue teases it hard. Pulling away from her hungry mouth, I trace a path over her chin and down her neck, not stopping until my nipple touches hers; rubbing them against each other until her smaller nub is stiff enough to fight with mine. Self-control is gone. I quickly reach my destination. Her creamy thighs in my hands, I spread her wide, her glistening pussy inches from my face, my tongue ready to enter her for a second time today.
"Again?" Beth whispers, part question and part plead.
"Again," I answer as I inch my tongue deep inside her.
***
"Just give me the fuckin' keys and I'll drive myself!" Beth's sapphire eyes are glassy, obviously from the bourbon since I have yet to see her shed a single tear.
I tell her what she needs to hear knowing full well how much she hates hearing what she needs to hear. "You know you can't leave. You'd regret it for the rest of your life. Besides, it would crush your daddy."
She gives me a threatening look from the passenger seat as she pulls the amber bottle from her lips. "Now that's a laugh. I crushed my daddy years ago when I told him I was fingering your stinky cunt instead of sucking dicks like a good Catholic girl."
Beth can be so cruel when she is drunk, worse when she is angry. The combination is devastating. I focus on the long procession of cars in front of me as we meander through the quaint Mississippi Delta town, lights on and heads low. I remind myself about the turbulent emotions that surface whenever Beth has to deal with her family and I wonder just who will assume the role of peacekeeper now that her mother has died.
The church service is, in reality, quite short but feels unbearably long for someone who hasn't stepped inside those stifling walls for a decade. Not being Catholic doesn't help. I'm not familiar with the choreography and all the random praising of God makes me uncomfortable. The only time I call out to God is when I'm coming -- the closest I get to spirituality.
"I can't do this. I fuckin' can't do this." Beth seems panicked as we enter the cemetery gates but still not close to tears.
"Yes you can. You have me and I won't let go of you. Not for a second."
Beth closes her eyes and takes a calming breath. "Should I leave the bottle?" She stares at it like Tom Hanks gawked at Wilson on that damn island.
"Hell no. not going out there without the bottle." I grab it and take a long pull before screwing on the cap and sticking it in my purse.
The gravesite service is both better and worse than I think it will be. Better because I spend the lion's share of the time watching Beth's profile. She sexes up a black outfit like sugar in your tea and my carnal thoughts push the heat of the whiskey impertinently to my groin. Fuck the irreverence.
It's unimaginably worse because of her father. Not the demeaning way he dismisses me with a casual "oh, you came too?" or "I'm glad Beth found someone to drive her here." It's the pain I see reflected in her eyes when he displays his constant disapproval of her life. Beth's disappointment in her father is tangible. I crave desperately to defend her but I bite my acid tongue and echoes of my reprisal die bitter on my lips like a traitor's kiss
"Not yet," she says when I suggest we go. The same, when her brother and his dysfunctional family of five climb into their SUV. Again, when the pastor bows his head and murmurs a final prayer. The crowd continues to thin as the sun peeks lower and lower through the Spanish moss and still Beth replies a quiet, "not yet."
Long, ominous shadows paint the graveyard as I watch the funeral staff leaning against a dirty yellow backhoe impatiently smoking and kicking at the dirt. I have surmised that Beth is waiting for a chance to be alone with her father and now that we three are the only attendees still braving the gloomy cemetery I intend to give her some space.
I try to remove my fingers from hers but Beth clutches my wrist like a mother at a busy crosswalk and so I stand silently behind her trying to appear invisible. Her father does his part by totally ignoring me.
"Getting dark." His voice is like a truck tire on a gravel road.
"Daddy, I wish I...I mean, if I can do anything..." Beth's thoughts trail off and I realize that these are the first kind words I've ever heard her speak to her father.
He studies her for a moment, obviously caught off guard by her civil tongue as he tries to determine her sincerity. I see his shoulders relax slightly and it appears that bloodshed will be averted but Beth picks that time to take a last swig from her now empty bottle.
Her father starts to say something but stops and just shakes his head. "Go home, Beth. It's late."
"I think I'm gonna stay a little longer." She says this casually but I detect a hint of adolescent defiance.
"Oh for crying out loud, it's not a contest! Staying longer doesn't win you any prizes."
Her grip tightens on my wrist. "You think I give a rat's ass what you think about me?"
"No, it's pretty damn obvious that you don't care what I think." His eyebrows rise in my direction -- the one fleeting acknowledgement of my presence. I feel Beth tense and know that she caught his subtle recrimination.
"Yeah, well fuck you and your horse!"
So much for preventing causalities. Her father leaves without another word as Beth spits out a venomous attack, blaming him for everything save the Kennedy assassination, much to the entertainment of the backhoe crowd.
After he's gone, I try to convince her to leave as well. It's dark, I tell her. There's nothing more we can do here. Let them put your mother in the ground. In the end, though, it's something more practical that gets her in the car. I have another bottle of bourbon under the seat.
We drink on top of the hill in the rental car and watch as the coffin is lowered and the last scoop of dirt is piled in a mound above it. The headstone rests in its proper place but hasn't been set, instead resting on a temporary wooden platform. I don't generally frequent cemeteries at night and watching the fresh grave is a bit unsettling.
Beth is quiet and I leave her to her thoughts. I'm a little pissed off anyway. I'm pissed at her father for being such a judgmental prick. I'm pissed at Beth for making me stand beside helplessly and watch her spectacular flame out. And for not crying one goddamned time this past week. I'm pissed that I have to drive later so I can't get face-in-the-can drunk like Beth already is.
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It's nearly ten o'clock when she stumbles out of the car to pee. I join her in the grass, pulling my panties down and squatting under the cover of my knee-length skirt. When the moon steals a glance through the overcast night sky it is bright enough to cast shadows of its own and I look over my shoulder to see Beth, dress bunched around her waist and foot cocked up on the hood of the car, pissing a stream of urine on the bumper. It's both vulgar and erotic as hell.
With a shrug of her shoulders she wanders down the hill toward the gravesite, something we both know was as inevitable as breathing. I tell myself I'm just going to stay in the car and I do for several uncounted minutes. Beth is so strong. It's me who can't handle her pain.
My fingers brush the small of her back and it startles her even though she must have heard me approach. I keep my hand there, not wanting to intrude but letting her know that she doesn't have to do this alone. Dozens of flower arrangements adorn the site but their sweet fragrance mingles with that of the overturned earth, creating a damp, pungent bouquet. A gentle breeze tickles my cheek and I realize how sleepy I am. Then I dreamily feel Beth move ever so slightly.
A subtle push against my hand, barely enough to register but it speaks to me like a whispered secret. Is it merely a shift of weight, I wonder; the instability of the bourbon? I can't isolate the root of my reaction until she moves again and I recognize that familiar grinding pressure.
I am suddenly aware of the swell of Beth's ass as she rocks back to meet me. I delve lower and a plaintive moan escapes her pouty lips. And then those lips are on mine as she spins around and pulls me to her. Her hands pull my hair and squeeze my bare neck. I feel like I'm falling; her passion surrounding me like an angry cloud.
Beth turns abruptly away from me and hikes up her dress, presenting her panty-clad ass to the light of the fickle moon. I know what she wants. And although I would typically make her stand there longer in that compromising position -- both for her pleasure and for mine -- tonight I cannot restrain my desire.
I don't even bother pulling her silky panties down, just slide them over the make room for my hand. I snake my fingers down and enter her from behind, surprised at how wet she is already. Beth grips her mother's headstone and sways her head into the breeze while I stand beside her and fuck her. It has always been a five-star position for Beth. I believe after tonight, however, it may forever take on a new dimension.
Two years earlier Beth and I stayed at her parents' house for one ill-fated night over the Christmas holiday. Despite the long-distance reassurances that our relationship would be treated with respect, her mother still prepared two bedrooms for us. Her response to Beth's indignation was a flippant "not while I'm alive." The irony of the moment is thick enough to shovel.
Beth cums a few minutes later with a silent shudder and falls to her knees in the dew-moistened dirt. I'm numb to the irreverence of the act that just occurred. I care only about Beth. Fuck her sanctimonious bitch of a mother.
I ease down behind and wrap both arms around her, apprehensive and resigned to what I know is coming next. It starts in her shoulders and moves quickly to her gut. I hold on tight as heartrending convulsions rack her tortured heart and her warm tears wash into the soil of her mother's grave. At last, Beth cries.
***
Beth starts it -- a little dab of cookie batter that plucks my cheek from across the kitchen. I blow a pinch of flour in her face before bumping her away from the blender. A handful of chopped walnuts smack the cabinet above my head like a shotgun blast as I duck just in time. I retaliate with a direct facial spray from a can of whipped cream. And then it's on.
It's exactly the release we need, and I don't just mean the lemony nipples or the chocolate glazed pussy. And certainly not the banana that broke when...
Beth's been cooped up too long. Even the short winter of the bayou has proved too much for her restless spirit and we both long for the sweet smell of honeysuckle and jasmine that accompanies the beginning of spring. But for now the thermostat still reads thirty-eight degrees. The live oaks that apron our secluded hideaway still reach to the sky bare, like boney fingers from the grave. And Beth and I have an almost terminal case of cabin fever.
I've never had a food fetish but what's not to love about caramel and tits; strawberries and cunt. I laugh so hard my belly aches. I come three times.
In a classic slapstick scene, my heel catches the corner of a banana peel and I strike the floor hard on my ass. It hurts like hell but I can't stop laughing. Beth insists on kissing it and making it better. My tailbone might hurt for days but there's no question that she does makes it better. Beth makes everything better.
***
I am teetering on our rickety old ladder, hammer to nail, when I feel the first raindrop. It is impossibly large and slides down my cheek like an elephant tear as I secure the final board over the tall, Victorian window. I gather my tools as quickly as possible and drag the twelve-foot ladder to the shed. The wind whips the door open with such force I fear it will be ripped from its hinges. It is the first time I question the wisdom of our decision to ride out the hurricane.
By the time I make it across the rambling yard and up the painted wooded stairs that skirt our large front porch, the rain is coming down in buckets. The whimsical pastels of the veranda that have unfailingly lightened my heart have been drowned by the menacing sky. Rough plywood scraps cover the windows and give the house an unfamiliar, slightly ominous feel, like the closing of a crypt.
"Beth," I call out as I enter the parlor. I track a wet path across the hardwood floor to the kitchen.
"Beth." It's barely past four in the afternoon but the house is dark as midnight. I flick the switch at the foot of the stairs and hear a hollow click but get no light.
"Beth!" I take the stairs two at a time and enter our bedroom on a run. Empty, save the darkness that begins to take on a presence of its own. Suddenly, soft light enters the room from downstairs like a breeze and I realize that Beth must be in the shed. The gas generator never starts for me but Beth seems to have the touch.
I slip quickly out of my wet clothes and throw on baggy sweats, feeling a touch guilty that Beth is still outside in the storm. I'm on my way back down the steps when she bursts through the front door and my guilt gives way to a more primal emotion.
She is a wild animal. Her shoulder-length blonde hair hangs in stringy, wet strands like vines in a rainforest. Water drips from every part of her as though she is the source of the rain. I'm frozen in mid-step, mesmerized by the rise and fall of her chest under her soaked blouse. Beth shakes her head like a dog in water and I catch a glimpse of her eyes. My God, I've never seen her so alive.
"Can you believe this?" Beth asks as she begins unbuttoning her top. "This is fucking incredible!"
Her voice is guttural like she's a smoker, which she is not. I take a few tentative steps down to the main floor but pause on the landing. It's like approaching a wounded dog; you want to hold it but you want to give it its space as well. She throws her blouse to the floor and reaches up to unclasp her bra. I've seen her naked a thousand times. I wonder if maybe my heart will stop skipping a beat when I've seen her a million.
The wind howls, pounding against the house as if it wants to be let in. Even though the generator-powered lights are dim I can still see their reflection dance in Beth's eyes and my knees suddenly feel weak. She peels off her wet jeans like shedding skin and her skimpy panties follow, never once breaking eye contact with me. I can't move. I can't speak.
Beth comes at me like a like a leopard on a gazelle just as a deafening crack of thunder shakes the house. Her eyes are frightening; almost feral and alive with energy as powerful as the eye of the hurricane we are now trapped in.
"Fuck me." A familiar flavor of sorrow colors her hoarse whisper and it reaches me like a punch to the gut.
I want to hold and console and comfort but those are the things that I need. We instead wrestle on the steps, the hard edge of the risers digging first into my back and later punishing my knees. Kisses so hard our teeth clash like swords in battle; the taste of blood from bruised lips. Fingernails pierce my ass as she pulls me closer; into her, through her.
Afterward, as the storm continues to bark angrily at our humble fortress, I get my chance to soothe the beast that now lies dormant in my lover. Her naked body curls against mine and I pull the blanket off her shoulder so I can see her better. My arm drapes over her pale breast and I am charmed once again by the contrast in Beth's milky-white skin and my darker complexion. Even her tea-stained nipple is lighter than my sun bronzed arm and the thought of just how different the two of us are gives me both solace and anguish.
A lull in the storm outside reminds me that I know the truth about my Beth. I know that where I am dark on the outside, she buries her darkness on the inside. Much like this second storm of the hurricane season, the force that rages within her should not be underestimated. She is a gale, she is a flood. She cleanses and she destroys.
But just like Hurricane Beth that ripped across our little patch of the world, my Beth has long spells of deceiving calm. And that's where I live. I dwell in the eye of her storm; surrounded by her pain, protected by a menacing strength even she doesn't understand. I feel the wetness on my cheek before I realize I'm crying. Big, salty tears. Elephant tears.
***
There is no suicide note. That would be cliché and Beth hates cliché. Would there be a sense of peace if final thoughts were put to paper? Or would last words haunt; regrets magnified by some unknown revelation? As with our entire relationship, I can't help but feel the choice is not really mine.
Beth remains undefined to the end. I irrationally presume that solving her mystery would be a saving grace; that understanding her is somehow a key to unrealized serenity but I know that's just wishful thinking. She is a puzzle that is not meant to be completed.
My only regret is that I will cause Beth pain but I guess that is unavoidable. She will no doubt replay all of our conversations in hopes of gleaning some sort of insight into my decision to take my life. Should she have seen something? Was there something she could have done? I wish I could tell her that it isn't her fault and that it is her spirit that has kept me here longer than I would have thought possible. But I can't find the words. Better to leave with her memories of me unblemished by the darkness of the details.
I see her best when I'm not looking at her. An image drifts unpredictably into the corner of my eye like a reflection on a pond. Snippets of a memory, a moment shared, play like a vintage movie on a foggy screen in my head and she surprisingly comes into focus. I both cherish and dread these unexpected vignettes as they leave me intoxicated with her presence yet somehow still empty beyond words.
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