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Author’s Note: This is a self indulgent piece of writing. It doesn’t contain detailed sex. I wrote this story strictly because I liked writing it which is why I made this account.


Jack Daniels was still burning my throat when she slid into my passenger seat and in the softest voice, too calm and too patient, said, “Drive.”

Her eyes were blue and when light hit them, like the yellow street lamp burning down on us, they looked clear. Like there was nothing in there. Soulless and cold. Drop a rock down, hear it clack, clack, clack against the walls and then clank against dry stone.

And when I didn’t drive, she slid the handsome gun from the waistband of her loose jeans, and aimed it between my eyes. Her voice was still soft. “Drive, love.”

So, I drove. My hands slid along the steering wheel, pulling us from behind the dumpster onto sleek roads through new stores with LED lights advertising god-knows-what on models with jagged hipbones. Bright white street lights flickering the car bright like a crack lighter trying to catch.

Things I know about cars are as followed: fuck all. However, şirinevler türbanlı escort the orange digits shining out of my radio, out of my entire dash, lighting up little dots along the seat if I press the button.. I like them. I’d rather face mortal danger than admit I like my car’s pretty lights to any other man on earth. Engine? Specs? Fuck. All. I know it takes the more expensive gas.

My pretty orange lights were illuminating her pink cheeks and the divet in her chin. Giving the gun a neon glow.

“Turn left up here,” she said. She slipped the gun away and was stretching out in my passenger seat, curling her fist and yawning. “I’m hungry.”

“There’s leftover breakfast pizza in the fridge.”

She smiled. “Sounds good.”

Sinking back into the shadows, resting her eyes, she was the woman I loved again. A woman with freckled skin and hair damaged from dying it purple and green and blue when she was young. A woman who stole my jeans and sweaters.

When she’d let me press my weight against her while she wrapped her legs around me, she was not evil. şirinevler ucuz escort When I slid her panties down and propped her up on the washer, she’d giggle and rattle with the cycle as I dropped to my knees and recited the alphabet to her clit with my tongue. Even when she was a little fiery, our pubes pressing together as we rutted and cussed one another. I never knew what she was capable of. I knew she was ticklish behind her knees and that she was a candy snob who only ate certain brands of gummy worms. I loved her so much I imagined a sweetness.

Laying on a cot with sour smelling sheets and the sounds of twenty other men moaning and snoring like freight trains running over a tin roof, I thought about those empty eyes. How her black hair melted into her black tank top. The thin white rope she looped through her belt to keep those jeans, my jeans, from sliding off her hips. How when they dipped down too-far, I could see the small bush of black pubic hair. How soft she could be when she was under me, how sweet the sounds she’d make as her body began to shake and tense.

I’m a şişli escort prisoner with no name now. My only tattoo is her name, guitar string and blue ink, right over my heart. As I lay on my cot I think of those loose jeans, my jeans, getting tighter along her belly. She’s untying and retying aprons. Pretending. With cookies and soups. Her letters come and when they do they’re splattered with new recipes on all five pages where she promises she’s being good. All I had to do was her time. For her. For our baby. She was tucking herself away and learning her lesson. On satin sheets.

My brain lit up with thoughts: my arms around her as we watched stolen movies on my cheap laptop before we stole the good ones by the pallet load, her hips rising and falling as she road me and her eyes rolling up when she was close, of her slipping a neighborhood kid money to throw a brick through a window a few blocks down. No matter where these thoughts drifted I couldn’t shake the single most overwhelming feeling in my body. Relief. I was in here, she was out there. They don’t let me out, they don’t let her in. Just the way it works.

Prison is no place for a woman heavy with child but sometimes when I walk along its corridors, under the green lights, air thick with cabbage and heavy-duty cleaner, and all I can do is shake I wonder if it’s a place more suited to the black haired girl. Eyes like ice. Gun in her waistband, who chose the razor blade on the young security guard.

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