It's Always Raining In Washington
By Jim
Danner
She is lonely, and her long hair hangs down her back,
between her shoulder blades. She lowers her head,
and it swings forward into her face. She can smell
it, all clean and erotic and warm, and not at all
like the ocean which is cold and fishy and damp, which
smells like semen and spongy logs, which surges in,
clear and cold and foaming at the crests.
She glances down again at her naked feet, the pink
arches pinched and wrinkled and she clenches the toes,
digging them into the damp sand. The red polish is
flaking off the nails, but this is okay, because she
will repaint them this evening while watching TV.
That way she will not have to think about Phil, or
how much she misses him, or how kind he could be,
especially when she was ill or angry. How he could
touch her hips and her butt and her small breasts
and she would feel warm and reassured. Or how he could
kiss her throat until it tickled, or bite her bottom
lip, or pretend to eat her nose, and he'd have hot
breath and she would be so aroused.
She tries not to think about Phil. They have separated,
not just sleeping in separate beds, now, but in separate
cities, so sex is neither an issue nor an option.
Who was responsible? She wonders, and realizes immediately
that it doesn't matter.
She remembers lying alone in the dark, and Phil coming
in. It's just after Theresa died, and she's ill again,
and Phil asks if she's okay and if she wants anything
and the attention makes her warm. He does love me,
she thinks, as he sits on the edge of the bed and
touches her hip, rubbing her warm flesh through her
blanket. She's lost a lot of weight and knows it upsets
him. But he doesn't say anything, only asks if she
wants some hot tea or aspirins. She shakes her head.
"I love you, Jenny," he says, and the sound is strange.
He looks awkward and uncomfortable. She tries to smile,
but touches his wrist instead, his right arm.
He looks deeply into her eyes, perhaps hoping she
will reciprocate. But she doesn't answer, just continues
to touch him, and his hot flesh feels so good! Oh,
I do love him, she thinks, and then, immediately afterward,
but it hurts so much.
She remembers Theresa. With her warm face and her
wise smile. She had such soft skin, delicate and almost
orange. She remembers Theresa and it's like a lightning
bolt and she is ill again. Theresa grinning, and Oh
God, her tiny lips pulling away from her pink gums.
Her tongue is almost curled up inside. She's making
sounds, not trying to talk, just reaching wildly for
one of Jenny's boobs, and suckling, and the pain is
nearly unbearable. Her nipples were always raw, always
itching, always oozing blood.
Then another image. And it's awful. The worst any
mother could ever imagine and Theresa was not even
eight weeks old, but her life is over!
SIDS. SIDS, they said, as if the explanation alone
would alleviate her pain.
But the worst part was her nipples, how they'd healed,
slowly, but somehow so quickly, too, like a long dissolve
in a movie. And the message was clear, but so bitter
and so utterly unbearable.
She withdraws her hand from Phil's warm flesh and
looks at her long fingers.
Phil senses the change. He looks uncomfortable again
and almost angry. He stands up.
"Well, okay. If you need anything, ask."
"PhilÉ" She says and sits up a little. She wants
to say something so bad, to somehow fix things, make
it all better again between them, and Phil looks at
her eagerlyÉ
But she is empty. There just aren't any words. Theresa
is dead and her marriage is almost over andÉwell,
she is just about all out of emotions. She sags back,
sinks into her pillow, and mutters, "Could you open
the window?"
Phil is disappointed as well, but the anger is gone.
He is only sad. "Sure."
So he opens the window, letting in light and fresh
air. But it's raining again. God, it is always raining
in Washington, and the air is always cold. But she
doesn't say anything, just snuggles in under her blanket
and accepts it. Phil goes out and she watches the
curtains for a while, then falls asleep.
I am lost, she thinks and she's no longer aroused.
She looks around at the beach, the ocean, and sees
that it's starting to rain.
But she wants so badly to believe in redemption,
to believe in the Magic Moment, the time when the
sun comes out of the clouds and the golden light lands
on her face like a lover's kiss or the cry of her
lost child, when she can finally feel warm again or
actually smile.
"And haven't I earned it," she asks, weeping, swinging
her sandals into the ocean and dropping onto the damp
sand. "Haven't I earned it?"
But there's no answer, so she just continues to cry.
The End
+++
Jim Danner lives in Western Washington. He's been
a roofer, a writer, shipping-clerk, picker/packer
in a Pet Supply Store, stacked doors, swept floors,
pulled chain in a lumberyard, and is currently doing
data-entry for an independent software company. His
work (writing as "Jim Parr) has appeared in Cleansheets
http://www.cleansheets.com/exotica/parr_01.23.02.shtml,
Literoticaffeine http://www.literoticaffeine.com/Something-To-Make-Her-Stay.htm,
and The Erotica Readers & Writers Association. http://www.erotica-readers.com/GD/TCQuickies.htm
