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The landscape was the picture of serenity, mostly. The tall lamps birthed a beamy fluorescent light to the clipped, sprawling lawn and the echoing cobblestone walkways that lied, stationary, between the two tall rows of dull shrubbery. A half moon strewed its blue-gray streams upon the scene and there we were, among the earthen pearls, stumbling. I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, she was licking her lips and brushing her bangs aside. With a jolting tilt of her chin, “Samantha, mi amor, tell me what it is you are thinking. Right now. I mean, tell me what you are thinking now. No demand. I mean,” she paused, “what is in your head?” “I was just admiring the scenery. Hey Blanca, we’re never going to get home,” I hurriedly groaned. “We still have to walk all the way down the path and up the stairs and down our hall—” “—And then we may sleep. And it will be glorious, like Baroque; why is it your favorite? So creepy with dead Jesus everywhere.” “Why can’t you speak English when you’re drunk?” “Samantha, I can barely speak English when I am not drunk. I’m from Columbia, remember? And everybody says you are so smart,” she laughed, once again brushing her dark hair out of her even darker eyes. I licked my lips, tasting the alcohol, and whispered, “Blanca, let’s take a break.” We sat down on the grass and Blanca ran her tan palms through the dewy surface, letting the precipitation slide down her wrists and her lean forearms. She touched my face and the coolness of the water and the light summer breeze made me feel consummately alive and young. My hands were too heavy to retaliate and so I let Blanca wet my face, over and over again. “Come, Samantha, we are almost at home. And then we can sleep.” And so we hobbled back to the cobblestone path. I saw the weeping willow where Blanca and I smoked her foreign cigarettes instead of going to the football game. My father was horrified I had missed it. The national championship game and you weren’t there? Why even go to college? Blanca and I laughed at the bare-bellied fanatics carry kegs to and from the dormitories and felt supremely sophisticated, secluded and sublimely superior. We let the cigarette smoke swirl itself into a strange, hesitant aphrodisiac. We slowly passed the tree and reached our dormitory steps. “We’re home” I yawned, unlocking the dormitory door. We clumsily clambered up the staircase, knocking into the paintings that lined the steps. We lived in a dormitory especially for art students and the smell of fresh oil paints invaded my nose in its familiar way. When we got to our dorm I opened our door and woozily turned on the lamp to the lowest light setting. I closed the door. Blanca stretched and nearly fell over, but she grabbed on to my bed frame for support. “That was a close one! I am such a…what is the word? Clause? Klutz? Klutz! That is me!” Blanca blurted. “Shh, keep it down. Come on, put these pajamas on,” I whispered, tossing her a tee shirt and boxer shorts. “Here, let’s take your hair down.” I unpinned her long, black hair and brushed through it with my fingers. It felt so thick and strong, like the whole world could hide in that abyss and it would be her own little secret. I brushed her hair over and over with my fingertips, letting its silkiness stream through my hands, feeling every inch of its strength and sheen. She turned around and I brushed her bangs out of her eyes for her. She blinked. Her eyes panned down, ashamed. She bit her lower lip until, when released, it bursted with sumptuous shade. She looked back into my eyes. “Samantha, I—” “—We should just go to bed,” I interrupted, not meaning a word of my advisory. Blanca brought her hand to her lips, exposing her wizened palm to me. She kissed her knuckles and each pluck made a small, clicking noise. “What if,” she whispered, pulling out my ponytail, “I don’t want to ‘just go to bed’?” I paused and admired her newfound boldness. “Well, then what do you want to do?” Her mouth half-curled into a wry, obvious grin. She’s drunk, I thought. She’s not going to know what she’s saying. She’s not going to remember it tomorrow. Don’t be stupid. Just go to sleep. “No, Blanca. Actually, let’s sleep.” “Ah,” she started, “you think I’m just being a dumb drunk. I know what I am saying.” “I know, but let’s just not talk about it.” She stood up and swaying, hissed, “I want to talk about it some day. What are we going to do? Should we just play pretend like we don’t feel like this?” Her slurring made her accent almost inscrutable. She grinned, “Everyone thinks that we are together. We should just be.” “Blanca, but I’m not…I don’t like girls. Usually. Blanca, come on. Go to bed, you’re just tired,” I said, knowing she wasn’t at all. I wanted to close her mouth and kiss it all at the same time. I wanted to scream, I feel like that too! I love you! I’m in love with you! But I couldn’t. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I would not like a girl. “Samantha, stop acting like you don’t feel this! I know you do. Sometimes I feel like the world would fall apart if you left me. I know you love me. I am the only person who truly knows you. I am the only person who knows you, Samantha. Don’t be scared, Samantha.” “I’m not scared. I’m just tired. Let’s go to sleep.” “No!” she yelled. “Blanca, shh.” I whispered back, my voice trembling. “I will not ‘shh’! Tell me you love me. Just say it.” “No! I do not love you like that, Blanca. I’m sorry,” I said with my eyes closed, telling Blanca the same lie I’ve been trying to convince myself with the whole year. “You do, too. Samantha, you love me. It’s okay,” she whispered, pulling my hair behind my ears. She bent down and even more quietly whispered, “You love me.” She brushed her plumb lips across my face, blowing a tiny beam of wind across my cheek. “You love me, Samantha.” She took my face in her hands and kissed my cheek, my chin, my brow, my eyes, my forehead, all the while running her fingers down the side of my face. “You love me, Samantha. You do. Just say it.” I started crying, right there, with the most forbidden of loves holding me. “No,” I sobbed, “I do not love you! You are a girl, you’re a girl, you’re a girl,” I sobbed. “Get away from me!” And with this, she bit my lip and I bit back until my lips met hers, moistened from my tears. We kissed, and a pang of warmth shot through my body, warming me from my toes to my ears. I raised my hands and touched the side of her soft face. When the kiss ended, her wet lips met my cheek. “I’m sorry,” I spoke. “I’m so sorry.” Pulling away, she wiped the tears from my face, “Oh, my Samantha. Things will be okay in the morning.” And with that, I stood up and turned off the lamp. Post a comment in response: |
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