by Patricia Parkinson Read author interview August 15, 2004
I lie in bed and watch her smoke. She’s sitting on the toilet, legs crossed, bare foot swinging in time to the music in her head. She’s lip synching or counting tiles on the floor, maybe playing out a confrontation with the last person that pissed her off.
She takes a drag. Her mouth does that pucker thing she hates so much around the filter. Smoking in the bathroom was my idea; part of my campaign to make her quit. Isolate the habit. The next step is the garage. I wish I’d never suggested it, she’s so far away.
She’s wearing the baby blue housecoat I got her for Christmas. It’s soft, like a chamois and falls loose around her throat and chest. I can see the curve of her left breast.
Here it comes. I’m going to need an opinion about someone or something; perhaps our holiday, although that’s already planned.
“Who sings this song?” She knows all the words and some of the titles, but never the artist.
“What song?” I’m good at music trivia.
“Say it isn’t so, say it isn’t so. You know the one.”
“It’s not ringing a bell for me, babe.”
She stands up and walks to the foot of the bed, the belt of her robe loosening.
“Come on, you know who I mean. Those two guys, one of them had this moustache.” She runs her fingers across the top of her mouth, up to her eyes, and starts doing the dance from Pulp Fiction. “Say it isn’t so, say it isn’t so.”
“Honey, the only thing I know about that song is how much I hate it, that, and how much I hate it when you sing it.”
She pulls the last part of her belt from around her waist, smiles, through half open lips and eyes, and throws it at me.
“Fuck you.” Her voice is deep. She winks at me. I’m insanely in love with this woman.
“Well, I was hoping I could fuck you.”
“Is that right?”
She’s still dancing, her robe open all the way. “Say it isn’t so.” She sways and slides it past her shoulders. It slips onto the floor. “Say it isn’t…”
“Make me.” She runs her hand up her belly, cups both breasts in her hands, swaying, arms, moving out to her side. My cock is hard beneath the blankets.
“Get over here before I have to spank you.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?”
“Come here and find out.”
She gets on the bed, straddles me, dancing, singing. She moves against my thigh, wet and warm.
“Never. What do you say tonight you and I take a trip down the chocolate highway?”
She throws her head back and smiles, laughing silently. Her eyes close, and open, looking down at me. “If you want chocolate, fuck Willie Wonka.”
“Gene Wilder doesn’t do it for me.”
“That’s comforting to know.”
She raises her arms above her head and does her belly dance routine. “I could be your Gilda.”
“You already are.”
She smiles and I center her hips. My hands circle her waist. I move her along the length of me. I lift her, slightly, we stare at each other, smiling. She licks her palm, reaches down, takes my cock in her wet hand, and lowers herself onto me.
“It’s Hall and Oates.”
“Hall and who?”
About the Author:
Patricia Parkinson is the single mother of two children who make her laugh at herself and other things she once took too seriously. Her work has appeared in Words Writers Journal, The Vancouver Province and is upcoming in the Gator Springs Gazette.
About the Artist:
A native of Ohio, Marty D. Ison lives with his wife transplanted in the sands of the Gulf of Mexico. He studied fine arts at Saint Petersburg College. In addition to the visual arts, he writes poetry, short stories, and novels. See more of Ison's work here.