plot by me
533 words

I've taken her up to his favorite spot in Tokyo; a dimly lit vinyl bar with low neon lights that serves the best dirty martinis. The shelves of the little cove are stacked from corner to corner with a collection of vinyl records from every genre available. A juke box sits in the opposite corner, one of the only light attractions that is still up and running. The silent default hum of the machine fills the nearly empty room with a soft tune, inviting the guests in.

A man besides her puffs his cigarette once more, the smoke dissipating into a hazy cloud against the neon signs. I grab her hand under the table and begin to rub the little space in between her index finger and thumb lazily, reminding her that this is one of my most sacred spots. Another round of drinks is served for us, each polished off with two olives on a toothpick. I eat the olives first as she pushes them to the sides.

I touch her mouth, I touch the edge of her mouth with my finger. I am drawing it as if it were something my hand was sketching, as if for the first time her mouth opened a little, and all I have to do is close my eyes and erase it and start all over again. Every time I can make the mouth I want to appear, the mouth which my hand chooses and sketches on her face, which by some chance that I do not seek to understand coincidences exactly with her mouth which smiles beneath the one my hand is sketching on her.

She looks at me, from close up she looks at me, closer and closer and then we play cyclops, we look closer and closer at one another and our eyes get larger, they come closer, they merge into one and the two cyclopses look at each other, blending as they breathe, our mouths touch and struggle in gentle warmth, biting each other with their lips, barely holding their tongues on their teeth, playing in corners where a heavy air comes and goes with an old perfume and a silence.

Then my hands go to sink into her hair, to cherish slowly the depth of her hair while we kiss as if our mouths were filled with flowers or with fish, with lively movements and dark fragrance. And if we bite each other the pain is sweet, and if we smother each other in a brief and terrible sucking in together of our breaths, that momentary death is beautiful. And there is but one saliva and one flavor of ripe fruit, and I feel her tremble against me like a moon on the water.

Do me a favor, she says in between kisses and I pull away and cradle her face. Play that Fleetwood Mac song on that jukebox. The year it came out was probably the last time I danced, and it's scary. Don't ask me why it's scary, just keep kissing me and talking about the way that it isn't. Keep talking until this song is about us. Keep talking until we dance.