LIZ

Liz

            Iwas sitting there in the cafe, in a secluded corner near the back as usual,writing and sipping on an almost cold cup of coffee.  I was working on a poem dedicated to one ofmy lost loves when the bell rang.   Ilooked up in annoyance to see a woman my own age walk in.  I dropped my pen on the spot and stared ather, wondering what the hell she was doing out at four in the morning.

            Shewas attractive in a renaissance way, with wide, shapely hips, a thin waist, andsmall upturned breasts that I could see pushing against her plain white teeshirt.  She had dirty brown hair pulledback in a ponytail and wore John Lennon sunglasses.  She ordered a coffee and sat down at thecounter.  I looked her over and smiled ather faded, green corduroy pants, with their ragged edges at the bottom.  She looked at me right at that moment,lowered her glasses, and gave me a look that made me shiver.  Her eyes were dark brown and intense. 

            "Hi."she said.  She turned away to stir hercoffee.  She took a sip while I watched.  I liked the way she held the cup with herentire hand.  I have always imagined thatartists drink their coffee this way, although I can't say where I got thatidea.

            Itook my coffee and my little book of poems (you know, the blue felt covered onethat looks like a diary) and walked to the counter.  I sat down beside her without saying aword.  I just flipped through my book.

            "Ilike your pants." I said to her without looking in her direction.

            "Thankyou."  She answered.  Her voice was smooth and cool.  It had that callous, don't give a shit aboutanything tone, that I love so much.

            "Areyou an artist?"  I asked.

            "Sure."she answered, as if she were mocking me.

            "No,for real."

            "Forreal?"

            "Forreal..." My voice tightened.

            "Yes."  She answered. She looked back at her coffee and pulled out a pack of Marlboros.  She lit one and then held the pack out tome.  I took one, even though I didn'tsmoke.  She lit mine with her lighter,like something out of a movie.  I almostlaughed, but I couldn't.  My heart waspounding and I took a short drag on my first cigarette.  To my surprise, I didn't cough.

            "Letme ask you something.  What are you doingout and about at four in the morning?"

            "Icould ask you the same question." She responded, looking straight into my eyes.

            Iblushed, although I don't exactly know why. Her eyes were so penetrating I guess I couldn't look at them for verylong.  I turned away, in embarrassment,and pretended to search for ashtray.

            "Icome here to write.  The quiet helps methink."

            "Really."

            "Yes."

            Thebell rang again, signaling a new visitor. She spun slightly on her stool to look, brushing her leg againstmine.  I almost gasped.

            "Whatis your name?" she asked after she returned to her previous position,apparently not interested in the new customer.

            "Jeremy." 

            "Well,Jeremy, it's nice to meet you.  I'mLiz."  She said as she held out herhand.  I shook it and squeezed it gently.  Her hand was smooth.  I held her hand for a few moments while Ilooked in her eyes.  All I can say isthat there was a spark.  I feltelectrified.  This corny description isall I can offer.  My whole body tingledand I felt lightheaded.  I dropped herhand and looked away from her gorgeous brown eyes.

            "So,you said you were an artist?"  I askedmy purpose obvious.

            "Yes,I paint."

            "Really?"

            "Yes.  That is what I'm doing here late atnight.  I took a walk after I finished apainting I'd been working on for a while."

            "Congratulations.  I know how it feels to finish a piece."

            "Thanks.  It has been a while for me.  I'm rather pleased."

            "I'msure it must be good then."

            "Whydo you say that?"

            "Artistsare always incredibly hard on themselves. For you to say something is good, it has to border on greatness."

            "Yes.  It has always been that way."

            "Yes."I agreed with her.  "Can I seeit?"

            Shelooked at me for a few moments, thinking. She took a final sip of her coffee, put a dollar on the counter and thengot up.

            "Okay.  Let's go."  She said.

            "Rightnow?"  I asked.  I couldn't believe how impulsive she was.

            "Don'tyou want to?" she asked.

            "Yes,of course."  I said.  I had never done anything of this naturebefore and I was nervous.  I was sonervous she must have noticed.

            "Myapartment is right down the road.  We cantake your car."

            "Sure." 

            Igot up, left a tip, and we walked out to my car.  I unlocked the passenger side of my 89 grayDodge Omni for her.  I got in and pulledout of the parking lot.  I watched her asmuch as possible and almost allowed myself to believe that she would let metouch her.  A minute passed by before shehad me turn into an apartment complex. The buildings were old and looked decrepit in the moonlight.  I grabbed my book and we got out.  We walked up to the first building and sheopened the door, whose blue paint was peeling badly.  We walked down a dimly lit hallway that wascluttered with trash.  She stopped beforethe last apartment on the right and unlocked the door.

            Sheled the way into her apartment, which was extraordinarily small.  There was a small kitchen to the left, with abathroom at the end, and a living room that doubled as a bedroom straightahead.  The few feet of wall space shewas afforded were covered with paintings. There was a couch along the left wall, with an old wooded coffee tablein front of it.  Along the right wall,directly opposite the couch was a television. There was a bed stuffed into the corner of the room.

            Ilooked at her paintings, while she busied herself in the kitchen.  Most of the paintings were of women, invarious stages of undress.  I looked at apainting that depicted a man raping a woman, with the woman bent face firstover a counter.  I was caught up in thispainting and didn't notice that she was standing beside me, holding twoglasses.

            "Thisis my newest painting, the one I finished just a few hours ago.  I call it marriage."

            "Itis violent. Dark."  I said, stilllooking at the picture.  I looked closelyand saw the details, which brought the picture to life.  The woman had tears in her eyes and bloodcould be seen on her legs.  Not a lot ofblood, just a trace.  She also had a fatlip. In the background a dog watched the carnage.  "This is disturbing."

            "Thankyou."  She gave me a glass of what Iknew by smell to be Jack Daniels.  I tastedmy drink and felt that familiar burn.

            "Isit for sale?"  I asked.

            "Yes.  As you can see, I definitely need themoney."

            "Believeme.  I know the feeling."

            "Ibet you do."

            "Ihave to use the bathroom."  Isaid.  I finished my drink and put myempty glass on the coffee table.

            "Fine.  It is through the kitchen.  I'll read your book, okay?"  She asked. She picked up the book without waiting for an answer.  "And grab the bottle of JD on your wayback."

            "Sure."I said.

            Ilingered in the bathroom for a long while, washing my hands slowly andsmoothing my hair back away from my eyes. I gave her ten excruciatingly long minutes to read through my book,which contained about fifty poems.  I wasextremely nervous as to how she would receive these poems, due to theirextremely personal nature.  I exited thebathroom, grabbed the JD, and entered the living room.

            Shewas still reading my book and motioned for me to sit down on the couch besideher.  I poured us both large drinks andsipped mine impatiently while she read. After what seemed an eternity, she finished and closed the book.  She sat there, silent, for about two minutes.

            "Youtry hard, but you're not a poet." she said. 

            Isat there stunned.

            "Thankyou for letting me read your poetry. They are very emotional.  You suredon't hide your feelings in high flown language."

            "No.  I don't, but you don't like them?"

            "You'rejust not a poet."

            "Isee."

            Sheturned herself towards me.  She grabbedher drink and took it down in two large gulps. Her eyes watered and she shook violently from the burn. 

            "Doyou think you're a poet?"

            "No,I guess not.  I write stories.  I just dabble in poetry.  It just shocked me you gave it to mestraight.  Nobody has ever done thatbefore."

            Shesmiled and laughed.  I loved her laugh,which was light and seemed to bounce.  Iforgot about her insult for moment.

            "Whatare you thinking?" I asked.

            "I'mthinking whether I should let you fuck me or not." She answered.  Her face was expressionless as she said this.

            "Metoo." I said.  Her cold, coolexterior was completely gone.  I leanedover and kissed her, tasting her firms lips, and smelling her scent, which wasa mix of whiskey and perfume.  I pulledher against me and put my arms around her. Her solid body was warm and I could feel the life inside her.  I slid my hands under her tee shirt andlifted it over her head.  She was notwearing a bra.  I caressed her firmbreasts with my hands as we kissed.

            Shelifted off my shirt and rubbed her hands over my chest, slowly and gently.  Her fingers lowered on my stomach to justabove my belt.  She touched the skin withthe tip of her finger, making me gasp. She unbuckled my belt and threw it off. She pushed me on my back and took off my shoes.  My breathing grew heavier as she slid mypants down.  I watched as she slipped outof her corduroys and eased on top of me.

            Shepressed herself against me and I reached for her, but she held my armsdown.  I could feel her through my boxersas she kept pressing her sex against me. I struggled free and lifted myself.

            Ipushed her down and slipped her panties down her legs.  She reached up and ripped my boxers down,exposing me.  I got on top of her andspread her legs with my knees.  She exhaledas I entered her.  Her arms went limp ather sides as I pushed in and out slowly. As I quickened my pace, she brought her arms up and placed them on myback.

            Ireached my climax too quickly and tried to pull out, but she held me insideher.  We lay there sweating and breathingheavy for a few minutes, neither of us speaking.  I finally rolled off here and sat at the veryend of the couch.  I put my head in myhands and cursed myself. She came up beside me and put her arms around myshoulders.  She kissed me gently andwhispered in my ear.

            "Itdoesn't matter," she said.

            Wewent to bed and slept until three the next afternoon.  When I woke I dressed quickly and got readyto leave.  I had to go at work.  She sat up, groggy eyed, her hair in a messand shook off the covers.

            "Whereare you going?" she asked.

            "Towork."

            "Oh,shit.  I don't want to worktoday!"  She said as she threwherself face down on the pillow.

            "I'llcall you tonight."

            "You'dbetter," she said.  I walked overand kissed her on the cheek before I left. 

            Ileft my book there and drove home to get ready for work.

I never did call her.