Breakfast And Then We Love And Hope

A Story by Mad Mezi

by a clearly

“You will never be alone,” she said, stroking my hair

We sat at a table in the corner, by the bagel toaster, eating a breakfast we did not particularly care for. We were still inebriated, still sensitive to this realm of light and noise, the clanging of dishes and metal utensils, the sizzling auras of cheap imitation bacon and rotten eggs. But the breakfast was free.

She had on a loose blouse with whiskey stains on it. We sat close because I always enjoyed keeping her close to me. Her blouse was loose and I could see her freckled tits swaying back and forth as she moved her arms to pick up food. I sat close, so that I could brush my hand by them when reaching to grab food of my own. She was too drunk to care or too comfortable with me to say anything--it’s always difficult to tell. You could be in love with somebody for fifty years and there is still be no guarantee that you are allowed to do anything.

She rested her one hand on my thigh, which was keeping me quite warm. She decided to feed me herself, lifting the jelly smeared toast to my mouth. We were laughing.

Then I gave her kiss. I don’t know why, I just had to. There was no warning or pretense--it just happened. At first she was startled, but her lips came to in moments.

Sometimes a man just has an impulse.

We went back to the motel room to gather our belongings--mostly whatever was left of the alcohol. We swept the empty bottles into the tiny room trashcan, some of them falling out over the top. She stood in the open door and smoked a cigarette and I thought about just jumping her right there--just pushing her up against the railing and entering her while she was smoking that cigarette. Something about the smell, I think.

Sometimes a man just has an impulse.

Marian is beautiful in her own way. She’s not your typical ideal of pretty--she’s rather short, a little wide, she has some baggage. I wouldn’t call it baggage. I wouldn’t call her chunky or curvy or anything. I’d describe her more as a milky girl, a frothy beauty; a very meaty and milky specimen, something that awakes an animal instinct in you to devour everything.

She’s not the kind of girl you would write a poem about, but she is the kind of girl you would take to a motel and f**k for days.

I finished a beer somebody left.

Then I watched her, sitting on the bed, chewing on some fatty bacon I’d taken. She had a nice bum. It was very round and full. It had some folds, but not that many, especially during weeks when she managed to exercise or starve, then the skin tucked in real nice. Even when it hung, though, even when it got real fat, it was still good. I tasted it in my mouth. I couldn’t taste the bacon. I wanted to eat her.

Sometimes a man just has an impulse.

She looked back at me and smiled. It wasn’t all feasting--there was conversation. She had a trailer trash wit: very hard-edged, very brash, very disgustingly delicate. She had a nice voice and a very memorable giggle. She also knew how to get serious"and by serious, I mean she knew how to talk about big things. Art and politics and all that.

Although, she didn’t really care for the rat race. She cared more about obscure art-punk bands and subway mosaics and that sort of thing. She adopted the counterculture at an early age, growing up in a broken home. She had issues trusting me at first--residual trauma from an abusive father--but she eventually let me in.

I never did anything to hurt her or trick her. I was very upfront. There would be instances where we would fight and she’d get mad at me, but I explained myself so well, I admitted defeat so comfortably with her, she could never stay mad. I felt like I was leading her on.

Sometimes a man just has an impulse.

She came back in and plopped herself on my lap. I could feel the cheeks of her bottom rub up against my pelvis, her fleshy weights pressing down, warmly, tenderly, they never pressed too much, but rather a comforting weight, like the comfort of a dog lying at your feet while you sleep, or a mother holding you to her breast as you feed. She was a special kind of girl that she could inspire such feelings with nothing more than the touch of her body. Even moving my hand up and down her darkly freckled arms, or massaging her shoulders, or touching her cheeks and her face--it all made me go mad with lust. I knew that if I could somehow consume her, I would forever be satiated.

I poked my nose into the side of her neck, just below her ear, tickling her. It felt good even for me, as if it was tickling my soul. I wrapped my arms around her stomach, settling them between her thighs, just close enough as to feel the heat of her center.

“Marian,” I muttered. I could never talk like a man to her--her presence made me feel so weak.

“Yes?”

“I don’t ever want to be alone.”

She turned her face slightly, a cute chuckle, placing her hand upon my face. Her hand felt so smooth yet rough; a nurturing hand, but also one capable of dealing a blow if necessary.

“You will never be alone.”

I moved my hands upward to hold her breasts in my palms. She didn’t resist. I began pushing them around, the warmth of her chest--I could feel her heart beating--exciting me and soothing me. Then we kissed and tongued and I didn’t feel alone then--I couldn’t.

I almost said I loved her so much that I wanted to put a child into her, just so my children could know what it is like to have such a loving mother.

But then I thought, I can’t do that. They will steal her away from me. And so, I pushed Marian off of me, and walked out the door.

I escaped her. I escaped that fate--the fate of ever having something so wonderful as to only have it taken away. I didn’t want that. I remained hungry.

In that moment, I made the honest decision.

Sometimes a man just has an impulse.