Empty Bras and Red Tacks

Short story detailing a mix of real, and imagined experiences.

          He had that familiar face. A rounded chin swept into a curve that formed

his rounded cheeks.In the night when I closed my eyes I saw him;

beyond the thin rim of his disappearing lenses.He always had bright eyes. Even as

they hung dim and dark in his sockets. They lit up the hallways; a piston for two

henchmen flanking his sloping shoulders.

         

          I always thought his 'Shawn Hunter'  haircut was funny

even as it haunted me. Deep brown, hanging limply above his ears in an

effortless homage to asymmetrical bowls.

         

          I was thankful for his broad smile that spread an uneasy warmth across his

face. Even as the tack's sharp head pushed through the surface of my skin with an

audible pop. Two fingers with chewed up cuticles, fraying at the seams, held tight

rolling the red plastic through their pads. Each twist a reminder of my empty

bra. With straps that better served to hang out my sleave than to hold up a breast

or two. 

          The others remain faceless in present and in memory. Blank faces

contorting into twisted blank expressions as their bodies dropped into piles of

flesh at the base of my driveway.

          I didn't wait for the blood to pool. I nestled my head into his arpit right

there behind the oak tree. It was odorless and dotted only with fair hairs

sprouting under the thick flannel over shirt he liked to wear. It was too big

after-all.

          My eyes shut tight. I could feel the soft wind carrying the smell of

gunpowder and fresh blood- like newly minted pennies through the rustling

leaves and pushing through the thin blond hairs that lined my forearm and up

through the crook of his arm filling my nostrils.

          The heat came quickly around my face and localized on my cheeks. But

hanging still above us both. A small hot kiss formed with pursed wrinkled lips

landed on my forehead with the sting of unease panging in it's wake.

          He pushed his hair back behind his ears. Those same locks formed moments

earlier with my slender fingers. Held together with grease and

unmanaged dandruff. My head laying on his sickly sweet chest. Our bodies 

sprawled on the cool pavement in a bed of scrambling ants.