Story Time

I will never forget that night.
The smile on the sweet Chinese man's face, the movie-like quality of his accent as he pronounced me to be more suitable for you, "This one has heart."
His slightly drunk eyes twinkled and I wondered if you knew that he was right.
He showed you all the points on me where you could kill or temporarily disable a person.
Each time he poked, I squealed.
You liked that, and I think somewhere echoey inside, we both knew you would cause similar sounds to erupt from me later.
The sounds, the textures of that night were all foreshadowing, and I could feel it coming like a tidal wave.
But what I didn't know that was that they foretold the advent of harmony for my long-discordant soul.
I liked the way you shared my preference for conversation to the embarassing groping of the others.
I liked the way you smelled...same cologne as my first love.
The casual way that we slid onto your Harley was more foreshadowing--it was like deja vu that was so obviously real we didn't even call it deja vu.
We had done that before--or would do it again, countless times.
I remember the giddy feeling of taking off fast, and holding on tighter as we rounded corners.
I told you where to turn, gave you a route with open roads.
You didn't believe me...typical man, eh?...and we found ourselves in a sleeping neighborhood.
Laughing into the wind, you turned around and went my way; I was right.
You talked to me the whole time--on both great adventures of the night.
I put my head back and looked at the stars, a great joyous laugh leaping out of my throat before I hid my head behind yours, ducking the wind.
Living a dream sometimes feels better than small deaths--
such vibrance, such sharpness of cognizence.
Every nerve ending was open wide and swallowing down the sweetest drink of all time.
When we came to a stop, my cheeks were flushed and my hair was windblown--another mark that this was my destiny, as I wear it well.
Inside again, a pit stop.
You found me, then, and pressed me against a wall, lips so soft yet pressing so hard.
You stepped back, and I smiled, so breathless still from the ride.
I wanted more.
More of everything.
Hours later, a calm descended over me that could not be shaken.
The deepest longings of my soul had been filled up like an ice cube tray.
That sounds cheesy, doesn't it?
Maybe it all does.
But finding serenity on the back of a Harley isn't really supposed to be logical, anyway.

The end.

Ok, that was supposed to be fiction, and OBVIOUSLY part of it were.
It started out as fiction, but as soon as I said the "H" word, my own longings leapt in and took over for a moment.
Whatever.
I will buy my own damn bike someday.

This post was inspired by Mona's Word of the Day, which I usually just read in some jaw-gaping, awe-striken manner and in which I fail to participate.
This was not my best effort, but trust me when I tell you it's better than the soul rot below.

I will make a pact to do more fiction writing soon.
someday.
maybe.