fiction #4

He’d been asked to fetch a drink from the vending machine outside, and for the life of him he couldn’t understand why. Dinner had been just an hour before, and he remembered at least three iced-teas with her cut of lamb, and half the milkshake they shared for dessert. She rushed their walk to the motel room afterward, “piss like a racehorse” being her only rationale. He remembered her heels clacking like a bad tire on the pavement as he was dragged along , the evening stroll on fast-forward. Now she waited at their motel, probably pacing, probably impatient for that drink. He walked to the corner machines and the streets looked inviting. Empty and cool, moist like in every movie, the streetlamps reflecting off the asphalt like topaz. He contemplated wandering off the sidewalk and onto the street, heading in some senseless direction. But then there he was, in front of the vending machine, fishing his pockets for coins

Rapping his nails on the glowing buttons, he strained to remember what she wanted. The lights inside the machine were blinding. He tried reading all the names of the drinks through squinty eyes. Coke. . .7-Up. . . And felt two hands grasp him. He was spun around, his legs twisting. It was her. Her face was illuminated in a vanity-mirror light, her eyes feral and glowing, her lips slightly apart. She pushed him hard against the vending machine, the plastic face bowing from the force, as she wrenched off his belt buckle and unbuttoned his pants. And down she went, swift and without sound, disappearing like a riverfish. She had her way with him, his skin had losing all feeling save the fire between his legs, the friction, the spit, the teeth, the tongue. Her other hand grasping tightly at his shirt, she eveloped him like hot molasses. The city lights all blended together like watercolors. His knees buckled and he was draped in rapture, his head thrown back in epileptic thrill.