Mathematics

Mathematics

The equation states:

A soft kiss on the nape

of your neck, plus

five eager fingers

performing a soft

caress, multiplied

by my smooth body pinned

against your pretty skin,

and the square root

of your sweet mango

split upon my knee,

Equals…

Lust and passion

to the tenth degree.

Full Circle

Here we go again. She whines, she complains, says I'm not doing this or I'm not doing that, and I sit and I nod and I say I'm going to do better even though I think I already have. Then I tune her out and focus on the wall behind her which irritates her, and she irritates me because I have irritated her.

-Mathias?

My skin itches when she says my name, ears bleed and ache. I try not to roll my eyes even though I know, as always, I am unsuccessful.

-You know what? Never mind then.

She storms off into the bedroom of our one bedroom apartment, slamming the door behind her. Then I sigh, look around at the empty room that contains no more than a small beige couch, short coffee table, and twenty inch TV. I can breathe. Now that she is gone I can breathe.

When the bedroom door creaks open, three hours have passed. The living room is dark except for the light being emitted from the television. I fake being asleep even though I can hear each soft step she takes on the hardwood floor. She is standing over me. This I know because even though my eyes are shut my world becomes darker. Then her soft hand touches my cheek, her voice, much more pleasant this time, says my name. I shift, the springs on the couch whining under my weight, but I do not open my eyes, do not respond.

-I'm sorry, she whispers, then slides back into our bedroom, the door shutting gently behind her.

I open my eyes, shift so I'm lying on my back. I stare at the four wooden walls, color washed away from the darkness and debate whether I should go see her. I'm feeling pretty guilty right about now. Maybe I have not tried hard enough. Maybe I have but her needs have increased and as her lover and friend it is my job to meet these needs. Slowly, I rise, the television clicking when I turn it off. Then I feel my way through our apartment, stubbing my toe on the end of the coffee table as I make a left and bump into the bedroom door. I twist the knob, tip-toe inside, and find a spot beside her on the left, wrap my large arms around her slender frame.

-I'm sorry, I say. I'll try harder, I promise.

She turns to me and buries her face in my neck. I'm forgiven.

After that night things are good for a while. In the morning she cooks me soupy oatmeal with maple sausage on the side with a glass of OJ. I make her cinnamon toast eggo waffles, with turkey bacon and chocolate milk. We sit in front of the television watching her soap operas on the DVR and when she asks me what I think about a scene I tell her I can't believe it, they are insane and she nods and smiles and as always agrees. She gets dressed for work, but not before giving me physical alleviation for our fight. Then she leaves our home a happy woman. I clean for it is Saturday and I have the day off, and I study, texting her telling her I miss her as much as I can between studying and napping. When she comes home more love is made, then we cuddle and I listen to her discuss her day.

The next days are very similar and everything seems great. We are making it work. I'm trying harder and she is satisfied or at least she appears to be. Then it happens. That one day comes and messes up everything. This day I don't feel like cuddling and I would rather be alone to focus on school work. I don't text her as much, but I do text. I don't say much to her when I get home from class. She's upset. She wants attention. I don't want to give it. She pouts, sits underneath me, distracts me, irritates me. I don't say this but I'm sure by my body language that she knows. I pull away when leans against me, only nod when she speaks. I don't respond to her kisses, not today. Then it happens again the next day. The day after that everything is fine, but two days later it happens again. When I come home again she's on the couch, small feet on the coffee table, arms crossed on her chest. She is flipping through the channels glaring at me out the corner of her eye.

-We need to talk, she says, frustration in her voice.

I groan internally, place my things down and sit next to her.

-You're doing it again.

-I'll try harder, I say.

-You said that before and here we are again.

Yes, here we are again. And again I involuntarily roll my eyes and again I stare at the wall to keep from looking at her which irritates her. And because of this she irritates me, poking me, and nudging to keep me focused on her.

-I don't think I ask for much, she says.

-I never said you did.

-But you don't give it.

-According to you.

-According to me. Am I really that hard to please?

I don't respond. Instead I focus on the cooking channel she has landed on, watch the camaraderie between the Neelys and wonder how in the hell they are able to work together and remain so happy.

-So I guess it's just me.

I shrug, envious of their touching, their joking, kisses, laughter. They can't do that all the time. Or maybe I'm the only one who can't.

-You know what, forget it.

She gets up and struts to the bedroom, but doesn't slam the door this time. I sigh heavily watching the tv, wondering why this keeps happening every few days. I wonder if maybe we're just not compatible, maybe we're not meant to be together. Then time passes by. And I feel guilty. She's not really asking for that much. I need to try harder, I need to do more. We can make this work. This time I beat her to the punch, walk into our room and grab her into my arms.

-I'm sorry I say.

Her slender arms tighten around me, head buried in my neck. I am forgiven.

Liza's Song

At midnight most children are fast asleep, the comforts of a sweet dream enveloping them until the morning sun rises and wakes them. At midnight, if a child is up, it isn’t for long. Merely long enough to yawn, check the time, turn over, and drift back off, maybe long enough for a potty break. But most kids aren’t Liza. Most kids don’t have parents who either spend their night sexing, those sounds of love leaking through her walls, or worse, fighting, the crashing sound of glass stabbing her ears. Liza’s parents were bipolar in her opinion. They didn’t know what they wanted to do. One minute they loved each other, the next they’re signing divorce papers. Legally they divorced three years prior, when Liza was nine, but that was only on paper.

            This particular night they were at each other’s throats because Liza’s father had gone out drinking and stayed too long. It didn’t matter that the path he walked was something like that a snake slithered down. No, what Liza’s mother cared about was the fact that he was gone so long he could’ve easily been with another woman. It wouldn’t have been the first time, and her mother was sure that the last time wasn’t actually the last time.

            Liza lay with her hands behind her head staring at the glowing stars on her ceiling. She tried to block out the constant stream of curses that left her mothers mouth, and the slurred words that slipped out of her father’s like slob. Instead she focused on a melody that she’d developed on her keyboard earlier that day. It contained many flats to produce a somber melancholy tune, one that matched her daily mood. However, when she heard a loud thud against the wall, she realized she’d never get that melody out of her head unless she played it out. So she stepped out of bed, her feet nearly frozen by the coolness of the wooden floor. With each slow, careful step she felt her heart pounding something like the pounding from the other room, though she couldn’t be sure of what that was. She took a seat in front of her keyboard and ran her skinny pale fingers over the keys. She placed the thumb of her right hand on middle C, sighed, and pressed the note below it.

            You’re hurting me, Carl. All you ever do is hurt me. Her mother’s voice was faint. It was no longer loud and angry, no longer held a raspy growl. It was weak, gentle, fading.

            Liza closed her eyes then found the position for her left hand. She played the D₇ chord then continued her somber melody. In her mind she pictured the night sky, a deep velvet with tiny diamonds and a gigantic stone shining down on the lost ones of the world like her parents, like herself. That little piece of heavenly peace was unreachable until death did every miserable person part from the world. She imagined her mother in the other room, back pressed against the tawny wall, her tiny hands around her father’s thick wrist, that meaningless diamond in her wedding ring reflecting their every move. She imagined the darkness of her father’s eyes, the quivering of his lips, clenching of his teeth. He’d hold her until her grip loosened, and when it was almost nonexistent, he would release her to pool on the wooden floor. Slowly like an inflatable doll she’d come back to life, rub her neck, walk around him, and lie in the bed. He’d come to her, kiss the red bruises, tell her I love you and I apologize.

            Not once would their minds go to Liza in the other room. Not once would anyone come to see if she was alright. No one calmed her fear, no one wiped her eyes. No one even had the decency to peep into her room to see if she’d awaken. So as Liza played her song, not once did she stop to peep out of her door to see if everything was okay, not once did she think to dial 911 and call for help, not once did she even make a mistake on her keyboard as her father called her mother’s name and cursed under his breath.

            Shit, shit, Carol wake up. Wake up damn it! Fuck.Carol…baby…Carol…

            Liza’s song wasn’t long, but she played it as if it were on a paper filled with repeats. Her song didn’t end until she felt a tap on her shoulder, and saw two men in blue standing over her. She took her hands off the keyboard and wrapped her arms around her bare legs. All she had on were her panties, not jama pants. They brought coldness into her room. The outside had entered. They talked, she didn’t listen. She saw her father in handcuffs pass her room. His head was down, his walk slow, shamed. Never once did he look at her. Liza sighed, ignored the officers and went back to her song. The officers looked at one another but didn’t say a word. As Liza began to hum, her mother’s body was rolled through, a sheet covering her frame. Liza never looked her way. She simply closed her eyes and hummed along to her tune.

Cancelled Flight (Exercise 2)

Wet tears dotted the corners of her eyes. She sat with her back against the wall, crouched over somewhat like a hermit, knees to her chest, chin atop her knees. She looked up at me, expected sympathy, a hand held out to grab hers, save her. I stood against the window pane opposite her, arms folded across my chest, legs crossed, right over left. It wasn’t that I didn’t care, but I needed her to think I didn’t care. This was the time for the bird to leave its nest, to sore across the beautiful dawn sky and get lost somewhere else, anywhere but here. However, my bird refused to fly. Her wings were strong, fully grown, but she only flapped them when she thought I wasn’t looking. She didn’t want to leave me but she needed to.

            Gentle light seeped in through the cracked window to her left, my right. The shade was drawn, but the cool air still eased in and wrapped itself around my arms. She spread her legs, like the extension of her wings, flapped them then closed them again. She willed me toward her. I shook my head. Another tear fell. She licked her lips, parted them, tried to speak but no sound was emitted. I was tempted to speak but I said nothing. I needed her gone, but I didn’t want her gone. The slightest movement she made tugged at my tear ducts but not quite hard enough to cause rain to fall.

            You’re waiting on me to leave so you can call her over. I won’t go. Tell her to come now, while I’m around.

            I glared at her. She was testing me, but she knew me well. I wouldn’t do anything while she was around. Just go.

            I’m not leaving. Why should I leave? So she can come take my place?

            She’s not taking you’re place.

            She cleared her throat, threw her head back. She refused to move. Since she wasn’t going to leave I needed to ease her that way. I walked across the room to the closed door, pulled it open and tapped my foot. Another tear fell. She swallowed hard and slid up the wall, arms hugging her slim body. Her heart rate was up. Her chest rose and fell like a pump was attached to it, in and out, in and out. Slowly she eased toward the door; centimeter steps she took. Her back was to me, her brown sugary scent tickling my nose. My hands crawled into the air, hung over her shoulders. When she turned her black hair gently slapped my face. We were millimeters apart, lips a breath from touching.

            Do you really want me to take flight? she asked barely in a whisper.

            Her warm breath melted against my skin. My hands landed on her shoulders. Tension released itself from my body. My phone vibrated in my pocket. I ignored it. She took a step out the door. I pulled her back in like I was afraid the rising sun would burn her delicate skin. She took another step back and once again I pulled her forward.

            I’m ready for lift off, she mouthed.

            I’m not ready. I’m not ready. I. Am not. Ready. I quickly pulled her back in and slammed the door. Then I forced her against the wall, her palms against mine, fingers intertwined. My phone continued to vibrated, now, against her pelvis, gently vibrations gently surging through her body. Our lips grazed, our breath tickled each other’s skin. There was a knock on the door. We had eye contact and refused to break it. I gripped her hands tighter, watched them go from red to pale. I was the mother who suggested her child go to school close to home apposed to the university miles away. The woman on the other side of the door was the stepparent, hoping for just the opposite. I swallowed hard. I would explain it, I’d make it work, but this bird was not going to leave her nest, not yet. I wasn’t ready. She wasn’t ready. We were not ready for that sweet flight to freedom for neither of us desired to be free.

Angel (Exercise 1)

Here we are, lost in the glow of the brilliant light highlighting the room. It is an angelic glow,

falsely claimed by the sun and sleepy afternoon sky. However, this gorgeous illumination does not

belong to the world for it is far too extravagant to be a part of the earth. No, this glow is put forth by

the wingless angel underneath me. Her soft hazel eyes flutter and search mine for answers. They ask

for direction. Where do you want me? How do you want me? What do you expect of me? I expect

nothing for I am the mind, the thinker, but not the one who puts forth action. The fingers attached to

the palm, the clitoris hidden between thick mocha lips, they are in control. They are who she should

be asking. I’m simply the follower, the computer, given orders to carry out.

The fingers roam over the soft butterscotch skin, each dark spot, healed scars that sit upon the arms and legs. They feel like cocoa butter. They roam over the brown nipples, not as dark as my own, more like peanut butter than chocolate. She shutters, breathing broken, but says nothing. Her arms are at her side, her legs are slightly parted. She has offered herself to me. She is mine for the taking.

The fingers walk over the plain of her torso to the valley between her thighs. She stops breathing. Don’t stop breathing. Inhale, I say. She does and the fingers enter, not roughly but not softly. No bullshit, no playing around. The goal was to get inside. The goal was accomplished. She gasps, places her small hands on my thighs. I give her my eyes, gateway into me, the mind.

Breathe, dear, while the fingers do their bidding. Breathe while they explore and extract your essence. Breathe while they get to know you. Breathe.

She breathes, hands sliding up and down my arms, grabbing my wrists but cannot reach my hands for one is planted palm down on the bed. The other is familiarizing itself with the sacred crevice of an angel. I keep the gateway open though outsiders try to break our connection like the singers crooning from the radio, horns blaring from the filthy streets underneath, or the pedestrians, loud, annoying, shouting stop! without saying that exact word.

Her lips part and emit a soft soothing sound. My eyes fill from the joy and excitement. I must hear more. The fingers have become slicker and as a result go deeper and move faster. The more they explore the more the sound slips like a forbidden curse during a heated argument. And like the antagonist, the fingers push her, assault her. She releases a louder hum, a sweet musical on the edge on her lips. Like a Taser it stretches to me, sends electricity through my body but never leaves her lips.

Her grip on my arms is tight to the point where the hands begin to slip causing her nails to dig deep into my flesh. The pain is intense. I want it to stop, but the fingers continue to explore. They continue their extraction of her essence until it pools in the palm of my hand.

The Swing

I close my eyes, swing my legs,

and pump my arms.

As I gain flight, the wind

flows through my hair,

and I feel you.

I feel you grabbing a hold of me,

your arms feeling lovely

around my body, touching

Every part of me.

Subconsciously, I let go of a smile.

As I fly backward,

I feel your kiss

on my neck,

behind my ear,

on my lips, and

Eye lids.

When I come back forward,

I lose my breath,

The same way I do

whenever you approach me,

before you ever touch me.

It’s the feeling of anticipation.

The feeling is unbelievable.

The higher I get,

The more I hear your voice,

hear you coaching me

through this experience.

“Can you feeling that?

Can you feeling me,”

You ask.

I feel you.

It’s like you have touched me

With your mind.

Then I open my eyes.

I am no longer

swinging my legs

or pumping my arms.

You are in front on me,

Smiling, so beautifully.

I return the smile,

Grab your hand,

kiss your lips.

“I think I love swinging,”

I tell you.

You chuckle, say,

“I knew you would.”

Questions In Love

Let me explain it to you now. This is love, true love, unadulterated love. It is in the way that you look at me when you don’t even realize you’re doing it, the way my name drops from your lips onto the ears of others. It’s in the way that you yearn for me. I can feel it eighty miles away, over the moon, past the stars, settled deep within my heart. What you feel for me is love. True love. You know it as well as I, so why lie to others when they ask you about it? Why lie to me, why lie to yourself? You don’t know? Well neither do I. I don’t see the point in lying because honestly there is not point, only fear in your actions. So when will you drop the fear of young boy, and embrace you’re woman like a real man?