The end of the summer haunted me.
He was my best friend’s father. Off limits. No tocar. Every time I saw him, my insides shrunk.
The sun was bright, the heat so intense all you could do was crawl along the ground to avoid it. But I was on the ground for different reasons that day.
His daughter had gone off to college, leaving me behind to deal with this town and too many responsibilities. The Native American festival was in full swing, and I saw him there, walking around the giant tee-pee, his hands trailing over the fabric, his head tilted upward to stare at the sticks that crisscrossed together at the top, as if there’s something magical in the way a tee-pee is made.
When he saw me, a smile stretched across his face. It was the kind of smile that conveyed more than words, the kind I would have expected him to try and hide. There were real emotions, desires, thoughts. He was doing things to me with that smile. I could feel it between my legs.
He had always tried acting like I didn’t exist in “that way,” but I know how men are. I know how they think. Most of them won’t admit it, and half of them are in denial about it.
But I know.
I approached him and the crowd just kind of died away. His hand slid down the side of the tee-pee, pulling down a white sheet he used to wrap around his neck. His fingers found mine, and he brushed the tip of his tongue along his lower lip. Sweat covered his face and stained his shirt.
“We can go through these woods, to the field on the other side,” he said.
I thought he looked different in the moonlight. His blonde hair sat in chunks, wet and shiny on the ends, and his brown eyes gleamed black and pupilless like they had been dipped in oil. He looked rugged and scary and I wanted to go with him.
We walked through the woods, stepping around the brush, until we were in that field. He spread the sheet out and pulled off my top, and then my bra. He groped me, moving his gaze between my breasts and my eyes, visibly drawn to both my body and my soul.
He fucked me until I was ragged and shaking. And then he pulled me against him, allowing me to use his arm as a pillow.
He took a piece of my hair, and he twirled it and twirled it until it twisted into a knot. Then he spent the next hour unraveling that knot.
Unraveling and unraveling and unraveling until there was nothing left to unravel and all that’s left is this sheet and the smell of Indians and sweat in the air.
Left is a dark flash fiction piece, inspired by Dark Matter, available on Amazon.
Photo by photographer TJ Drysdale.