Forgotten

Hey,” he crawls slowly up the bleachers towards me, “I can’t believe I get those legs all to myself.”  His teeth gleam against his summer tan and I melt like a forgotten Popsicle.

Hey yourself,” I smile, head down.

Nearing me, his hand slides closer, touching my leg, and I realize getting up early to shave had been well worth it.

Man, you’re beautiful,” he says.  “How’d I get so lucky?”

I hadn’t broken a sweat during a single one of the game cheers and now a trickle starts to roll down my back.  My cheeks burn and my tight sweater is becoming itchy.

“I guess I’m pretty lucky too,” I reply.  My smoldering cheeks ignite and I feel several more streams joining that first trickle.

His hand moves up a little higher, gliding over the oil I’d rubbed into my skin after shaving.

“S-so,” I stammer, “what do you wanna do today?”

“I think I’m doin’ it.” He grins.

My already short skirt is being pushed up higher and higher; its pleats bending and folding like an accordion.

“Are you hungry?  We could get a burger…”

“Nah.  Who needs food”? He laughs.

His mouth envelopes mine, stopping my questions.  His lips manipulate their way up, over and through my closed ones and his tongue makes its way in.

I try to kiss him back, but he’s in a world of his own, like he’s forgotten I’m there.

“Maybe we should take it easy,” I suggest.  “’I’m a little hot.”  I lift the hair off the back of my neck welcoming the, albeit only the slight, cool breeze.

“Ooh, you’re hot.” He whispers. “Everyone knows that.”

He leans forward and his weight forces me to lie flat on the bench.

This isn’t happening.  At first it’s a voice inside my head, but then I say it out loud.  “This is not happening!”

He sits up straight and stares at me, bewildered.  “What?”

“This can’t happen,” I say, “not this way.”

“What do you mean, ‘not this way’ ?”

“Listen, I’m sorry.  It just doesn’t feel right.  I’m not even here, if that makes any sense.”

I could tell it didn’t.

“I’ve gotta go.  We should talk later.”

“But we won the game!” He shouts after me, as if that is the answer.

I walk on.  When I finally turn my head, he looks like a white bingo ball, the number 10 emblazoned on his front.

We never speak again but the memory is neither lost nor forgotten.

© 2012 The Wrought Writer

{ Thank you for the inspiration, Mr. Snap }

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About The Wrought Writer

“Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind.” ~ Rudyard Kipling ~ I want to write words that you like to read. Hopefully, we have something in common.
This entry was posted in Fiction, Photography, Short Story, Uncategorized, Writing, Young Adult Literature and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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