by Laura Motta
(03/31/04)

Hello you, I'm thinking. Hello pensive silent broad-shouldered boy who grunts one-word responses when Jeremy calls on you. You volunteer nothing, and that's why I like you...want you...whatever.

Sitting and watching you is hard. Very hard. Hard, hard, hard, I think, turning the word over in my head too many times as your thick fingers fiddle with pencils and paper clips and the antenna of your cell phone, which you keep in the back right pocket of your corduroys that are invariably dusty and worn through at the knees. Watching you is hard because you're a brooder, and brooders frighten me. Brooders hide their violence and their toughness and their get-away-from-me-ness -- or they try to. It radiates through their skin. They don't even realize.

Jeremy must think you're good because he always says things like, "Zack's story, which I unfortunately can't show you, was a great in terms of structure," and, "Zack's story was a really good example of that."

I have no idea what your stories are about because, dammit, you refuse to have your stuff workshopped, which is an option in this class if you're the shy type. But what's the point, then, I want to scream across the room at you.

Everything was fine until you started coming home from class with me. Well, not really. You'd pick up your stuff -- your bag with blue ink all over it -- look at the table, at the floor, at the toes of your Chucks, and hulk out of the room, no eye contact, nothing. I'd walk down four flights of stairs behind you, staring at the way your back moves under your T-shirt, and we'd walk out the door.

When we got outside, you'd go left toward the subway, and I'd go right, but in my head, you stayed beside me. You kept pace with me, every step, and said, "Hey beautiful, why don't I come back to your apartment and we can shut off the lights and re-enact all of the dirty things that have been swimming in your head for the last hour and forty-five?"

You came home with me every day. Your belly pressed against my back when my eyes opened in the morning. Your nose nuzzled the nape of my neck and your hands searched for mine, one big long stretch, fingers gliding through my fingers. You lived here with me. You breathed in my room. Me pulling off your shirt in one frantic, desperate yank, and your palms moving up up up my ribcage. You, lovely you, all over the place.

It's unfortunate that I'm so scared, that I can't say hello, because if I said hello, the word wouldn't come out. If it did, it'd be a squeak that just sat weird on the ears and it'd embarrass both of us, trust me. If and when I speak to you, I'll forget myself and have an orgasm right on the spot. Forget myself, thinking about my head on your shoulder and stuff, when really, all I'm trying to do is say hello.

And then one day it hits me in the face as I watch you, because I always watch you. We're mid-class and Jeremy lectures about getting your characters from point A to point B in convincing ways, and I'm too busy thinking of the way your cheek would feel against the inside of my thigh. And there it is: Stop it. Stop. Talk to him, or let it go. Let him fly. No more ghosts on the walk home and in the bed and in every corner of the apartment. Let go, because if I can't talk to you, this is not meant. This is a waste of brain cells, of time.

I can't let you fly. Not yet, I think, without making peace with the ghost who walks home with me, the ghost who whispers against my skin, the ghost who writes stories that nobody hears.

The ghost will be dismissed on my terms, but not until after my workshop. Because I'm braver than you: I can let the whole class look at my stuff. Nothing to hide. Nothing to run away from. Nothing to brood over. Just me and a bunch of words. Plus, there's that neat disclaimer: fiction. None of it's real, right? Abused? Neglected? Bored? Ex-boyfriends who suck? Never happened. Well, not to me, anyway. To this girl I know, but I've changed the details for continuity and flow.

So I write about you. In my story you speak, which is really all I want. In it, you move first. You say "Hey" and the girl says "Hey what?" back. There's some opening exposition, something about you staring at her from across the room in a screenwriting class, but it moves pretty quickly.

"Hey."

"Hey what?"

"Hey, nice of you to stare at me like I've got something stuck in my teeth, except I don't think you're looking at my teeth. Why do you walk so fast?"

"Places to be."

"Where's places?"

"Home."

"You live on campus?"

"In an apartment."

"It must be a great place, since you seem to be needing to get there so quickly."

"You can come if you want."

"What? Home? With you?"

"You don't have to."

"I want to."

There is a slamming door when we get there, the scurry of a cat across the rug, frightened for his life, no doubt, at the sight of Stranger Boy from Class. The kiss is a rough one, Silent Girl pressed against the door by the weight of his body. She likes it, the all-over rocking of their bodies, anticipating what they'll be doing later. His lips are as she imagined, rough, vaguely overwhelming. His tongue is eager, the moisture welcome. He is huge, protective, smothering.

She disappears in his arms. His hands find their way to the hem of her shirt and a soft, inadvertent pressure takes the hem up, presses her arms up with it. Finally: his hands against bare skin, against the softness of her belly. The hard, barely concealed smile when his hands glide over her bra.

"Very nice."

"Oh, shut up..." Her voice trails off because her nipples have puckered hard under the soft fabric under the palms of his hands; he decides the fabric is unnecessary. There is a frantic moment of tugging at hooks and snapping of elastic. There are giggles from both parties.

"Now I'm cold."

"We'll fix that."

His lips travel from their place at the base of her ear to her collarbone. He's smiling through open-lipped kisses and she's melting between her legs. She wonders how much will be left over once his mouth gets there and she nearly comes just thinking about it. He has found her nipples. She can barely see in the darkness how he tugs softly with his teeth.

"Hey..."

"You OK?"

"I'm fine...wonderful...you want to go in the bedroom?"

"Oh, I get it. A traditionalist."

There is tripping, untangling, and a devastating absence of warmth during the time it takes to navigate around the ottoman and into the bedroom.

"So let me tell you what I want you to do to me." She feels brave, ready to say words she's never said to anyone. He stops short, his smile tentative, unbelieving. The smile relaxes when he sees her start to peel away the remainder of her clothing; it disappears when she stands before him naked.

"I'm ready," she says.

Silence.

"You going to take off your clothes now, or should I?"

"I can do it myself."

"Then do it yourself. As long as I can watch."

"No way. Turn around."

"You're kidding."

"Do I look like I'm kidding?"

She turns her back to him, thinking, You weird weird boy -- but am I surprised? No. Because...because the thought doesn't finish itself because he comes up behind her and grabs her by the waist.

"Woah. Cold hands."

"Hot everywhere else." He nuzzles the nape of her neck and she can feel his hardness pressing against her ass, eager.

Her voice shakes but then comes clean: "Anxious, are we?"

"Shhh. I'm trying to concentrate." His kisses begin a slow journey down her spine while his hands wander on the front of her body, charting new terrain. Finally one hand slides between her thighs, finding the wetness. His fingers explore deeper, parting her gently, inciting a soft gasp, her teeth biting her bottom lip, her head tipping back. Hey, she's thinking. Hey, hold on a sec. Barely thinking. Rather, thinking the few coherent thoughts she has left.

"Hey, wait."

"What? Is this OK?"

"Woah...yes...OK...but I want a turn."

"This is your turn."

"OK, then it's your turn next."

"Is it?"

She doesn't give herself the instant it would take to answer him; she spins around and kisses him. It's the kind of kiss he gave her, strong-lipped, devouring. His torso, his legs -- everything goes rigid, for an instant, before he returns the pressure.

She says, "On the bed. Right now."

"Woah."

"Go. No questions."

He sits. She presses him back until he's lying down, straddles his belly, his hands on her thighs, a bewildered little smile playing across his lips.

She takes a minute just to look: his silky hair splayed against the mattress, chest heaving, pupils wide in the dark, turning his eyes black; his skin, which had been honey-colored in sunlight, velvet soft in the dark. I could devour you, boy. She's got her hands on his wrists, elbow to elbow, even though she knows he's not going anywhere. Just enough pressure to make his blood race in his veins, veins standing out on his arms and his thighs and his cock. She can feel them.

"What are you going to do?" A whisper from him, more excitement than fear.

"I believe I'm going to fuck you, kitten."

A kiss on the tip of his nose, another at the corner of his mouth before she raises her hips and finds him with one hand. A taut little groan from him at her touch. She guides him slowly in, his breath rattling just above her head. The feel inside is like being forced open, like being full, like welcome, like too good.

"Help me," she says.

A breath against his lips before she sits up on top of him, feeling him inside and under, all of him aching for release, she can tell, because the ache is skipping on the surface of his skin. Her hips move, slowly. His hands find her breasts, her belly, all the way up to her neck, her hair. He is a muscle, a tendon, twisted too tight. He's ready, too ready. She pries his hand off her breast.

"Right here."

With a little guidance his thumb finds her clit.

"Pressure, but not too hard," she tells him. Her hips rock faster. His eyebrows knot. Close. The pressure of his fingers increases for an instant and she tumbles over like a surprise, like flicking lights on. He feels her muscles contract, the wet warmth clutching him . . . and he follows, seed tumbling forth, eyes closed, their hips rocking until it's done, until there's nothing left, and still they move, weakened, fading, still moving.

"Thank you," she says.

His breathing won't settle, she thinks, will never settle. He'll be gasping and oxygen deprived forever, and that'll be fine.

"Next time, bring your manuscripts. We'll work through them together."

"I will."

There's stunned silence after she reads it, when it comes time to workshop. The boys half joke and are half serious about imagining my career as a director/screenwriter of arty girl porn. They're impressed. Jeremy says it's brave to be so open. And the grade is good, the scribblings in the margins positive.

But nothing from you. You doodle with your blue pen, head tipped down. Jeremy even calls on you specifically, trying to get something from you, asking if you have anything to add. "Nope. Not really," says you.

Goodbye, I say in my mind. Goodbye, Mr. Beautiful Honey-colored Velvet Ghost. Goodbye to you walking me home, to you kissing my eyelids as I fall asleep at night. Goodbye to tripping over your Chucks when I walk in the door. Goodbye to us reading each other's stuff in bed, you laughing at the funny parts and not bothering to scribble in the margins, because you can just turn your head and say it out loud. Goodbye, Zack. It's been real.

When I see you turn left that afternoon just as I turn right, the minute we hit the air outside of the building, no ghosts follow. I walk a block. I am fine for that block. I am. I'm alone and I'm fine. And then I hear you running.

"Hey." A few strands from your ponytail have pulled loose and flutter around your face. Your breath makes clouds in the frigid air.

"Hey what?" Because I can't think of anything else.

"Your screenplay..."

"Yeah...my screenplay...." I'm the one staring at my toes now. I keep walking, straight ahead, busting my way through the wind like it's bricks and stone.

"Slow down...hold on..." You keep pace, jogging alongside me. "It's really hot."

"What?" I stop, winded, taking hard breaths. I feel my lungs freezing from the inside out.

You face me and find my eyes. "Your screenplay is really hot. I loved it." I had imagined what your smile would be like. I had imagined it right -- wide, a Whole big bunch of teeth.

I want to jump. I want to run all the way home, to take what you just handed me and run run run run run up three flights of stairs, lock the door, bury myself under the covers, touch myself for the rest of the afternoon and never hope for anything more. I'd be happy with that. I would have.

"You liked my screenplay? You big perv." I laugh into your face, because I know. Because I know that you'll laugh back. And you do.

"I want you to read something that I wrote."

I am shocked. My silence tells you so.

"I mean, it's not anything like yours. Not nearly as, um...vivid...but you know..."

"Do you want to come over? I can make coffee. Or. I can go buy some coffee and then I can make coffee."

"Right now?"

"Yeah. Right now. You busy?"

"No. After class I usually just go home and sleep."

"OK then, no sleeping today."

We walk up the block together.

Like your smile, you are as I imagined. Shy. Shy for so long, and finally, months and months later when the time is right, passionate, flowing and fierce, you, and the words too.

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