The Light in Her Eyes

***~~~***

The Light in Her Eyes

By A R Shane

Copyright 2012 A R Shane

Eiso Publishing

*

This
is a work of fiction. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any
resemblance to real people, living or dead or otherwise, is purely
coincidental.

***~~~***

I walk up the stairs to the door. The
aroma of six sprays of cologne lingers in my nose. She's supposed to be waiting
inside. I knock once and stand back. The building is made of wood, and in this heated
hallway a smell like a sauna permeates the air. I stamp my feet and knock
again, giving the knob an extra twist incase she left it open to surprise me.

H e l p .

I cock my head. Did I just hear
something?

I jiggle the door and kick it with
my foot.

Jenny? I say.

Help.

I hear that cry as it tickles my
gut. It's her, all right, but she sounds weak, as if she's being smothered.

Jenny? Give me a second.

I kick the door, but it's made of
solid oak and doesn't budge one inch. I step back and kick again. The door makes
to sneer at me by not moving an inch. Instead, vibrations travel through my
body. It's painful. I broke both ankles in a car accident, so I decide not to
kick the door again.

The neighbors, maybe they keep a
spare key. I run over and knock. Nothing. I knock again and yell. Nothing.

Back at Jenny's door I smell wood
burning.

Help, fire.

I have no time. I know I can't call
the fire department because they are more than an hour away. I'd always said it
was stupid to live someplace so far away from civilization. Now she's paying.

I think back to my days as a
teenager, and pull out a paper clip. I run outside the building. Gray skies
sulk down on my head. The cold air attacks my lungs and skin. I find a rock and
head back to the warmth of the building.

Help. Her voice is louder now.

I stretch the paper clip out and
slam one end with the rock until the paper clip is flattened. I hurry back to
the door. The smell of something burning is distinct now. I jiggle the keyhole
with the clip. Nothing. Five minutes later, nothing. I have to get in. I wonder
if I can climb through her window.

I run outside, hugging my coat as
the air surprises me again with its ferocity; a wind has picked up. Beneath her
window, I check and see that there's no way to climb up. Nor do I have rope to
rappel from the roof. I check out the trunk of my car. Still nothing. Why don't
I have anything of use here?

The tool shed. The building
maintenance man keeps a toolshed stock full of goodies. I run over to the small
red shack. It's bolted shut. I jiggle the lock a few times. There's no opening
it. I rap my knuckles against the wood side. I give it a soft kick, wary of my
ill-fused bones.

My heart is trying to break out of
my ribcage now, and even though it's cold, I'm sweating. I can taste something
like blood in my mouth. The side of the shed is strong. I can't kick through
it.

The car.

I sprint over, slipping on ice and
falling on my knee. I limp-run over, start the car, and pop it into first gear.
I grip the steering wheel and steady myself. Yes, this has to be done, and you
can ask for forgiveness later. I slam the gas. The car takes off, the backend
wiggling. I aim for a corner of the shed and slam into it. The car shatters the
corner. I back it out.

Half of my car is destroyed or
scratched to death. I step inside the shed. An ax.

I run back up and hack at the door.
I don't hear anything from inside when I pull the ax out and slam it into the
door. The sound of wood giving way is very comforting. Soon I have a hole and I
stick my hand through it and open the door.

Inside her place nothing has been
moved and the air is clean.

I hear faint clapping. I turn from
the hallway to the living room. She's standing in the middle giving a mock golf
clap.

Bravo.

I shake my head and drop the ax.

She jumps in the air and claps her
hands more fervently. Perhaps she's pantomiming a child, or perhaps this latest
stunt of hers has her so excited that a child inside her psyche has come out.
I'm not certain. I've never been certain with her.

What's this all about?

It was a test! She says with a
grin.

You passed!

That was fucked up.

I'm sorry. I've been bad.

Yes you have.

The quickness with which she turns
on the sexuality, or is able to tickle my sexuality, is probably the reason I'm
still with her. Crazy bitch, but she's just right for me. Besides, it's not
like
I'm
all that perfect. One year after
getting back ito civilian life and she's not sick of my antics yet.

I take her as she pretend falls
into my arms and looks up at me. I can smell her perfume and the rub of sandal
soap on her light skin. Her eyes are greener than cracked chem-lights. I kiss
her. Full lips. My hands move down to her waist, thin, and her ass: round.
There's a host of things to attend to and I realize that I can't fuck her
brains out like I want to, like my body is screaming at me to do.

What about the landowner? I ask.

He'll kick me out. But I don't care
about that.

What do you care about?

Us.

Yes, I'm a sucker for her words
too. We kiss harder, her hand moves to undo my pants.

Are you asking to move in with me?

What am I, domesticated? She asks
with a condescending squint.

I pause. I fondle. I don't really
think of answering, because with her you have to know when to care.

Well, let's go then. She says and
pulls away from me.

My place?

I'm packed.

She shows me her suitcases and
smiles.

You're ready to go too, right?

I pause: It'll take a minute.

I throw her things into her car.

She runs back to her place then
jumps into the passenger seat.

Drive!

I pop the car into first gear and
it takes off. In the rearview mirror I watch my car as it disappears around the
bend. When we get to the highway, I swear I can see smoke from the direction of
her building. I look at her. She's looking back too, bubbling in her seat. This
is a bad idea, a part of me says.

When did you get this idea? I ask
when we merge into the freeway.

Oh, just now.

And where, might I ask, are you
going to go next?

We, silly, we're going to someplace
nice.

I stare at her like she's nuts.

You quit your job again?

I got tired.

She had a good job as a manager at
some store. She'd been to college. Hell, she even got an MBA, which is
something I never really understood, especially for someone with her personality.
A cage, she called her job. And since she was free, she jumped from job to job
as she felt. Was I coming along too? Of course, I had a job as a security
manager that I didn't care for. Nevertheless a part of me was jumping up and
down, pointing at her messed up personality, and telling me that I should
reconsider going with her. Most of me, however, was too excited about her to
care.

We get to my place, a room I'm
subletting in a house, and I pack my things. It all fits in my backpack.

So where to now? I ask back in the
car.

Anywhere beautiful. She says.

She says this and looks at me. Such
a dichotomy. Half of me wants to slap her, while the other half of me wants to
fuck her on the car seat. I've yet to use the word love with her, but I'm
pretty sure that the lust I feel for her is stronger than most.

How about Canada?

Okay.

She snuggles up to my arm when
we're back on the freeway and I drive the early part of the night away. My
concentration must have looked like worry because she tugs my ear.

Don't worry, love, I have enough
money to take us anywhere. Okay?

I nod. It isn't on my mind, but if
she's been saving up for this, then she must have had this idea for quite some
time, right? I wonder if I should ask. She's not good under questioning. She's
probably amazing as a spy, since she can evade and smile her way around
whatever it is that she doesn't answer. Why am I with her again? I guess I'm not
all that certain.

I pull into a motel when my eyes
finally squeeze tight for a moment that's longer than a few seconds. I look
over at her. She's crawled up in a ball, sleeping. She's in her shorts, and I
can see that place between her legs, highlighted in my smell and my sight. I
want my reward.

Are we over the state line?

She asks as she opens her eyes a
shadow.

Yes. Barely.

Good.

We get the room and she heads
straight for the bathroom.

I stare at the old worn carpet,
smell of smoke in the periphery, and the sheets that have a few stains that
look like they'll never be removed.

I flop down on the bed. I've come a
long way in my life and in her arms, and yet there is always the possibility
that I'm being played. I wouldn't be the first... man that is, in this world or
in her life. So what am I doing? And what do I expect to happen? I think about
the door I axed through. The landowner must surely have seen it by now, that
must mean that he's called the cops. I'm sure there's more to her wanting to
leave and quitting her job than I know. And even though I'm being dragged along
this ride, I'm not sure if that means I have the right to ask her any
questions.

You fool, I think. You're still
living a life where you're hoping for a perfect woman instead of settling with
something stable. You fool, leave now, or else you will pay with your life.
What could you possibly gain by coming along here?

The bathroom door opens and she's
standing, posing against the side of the door frame, a smile on her face, and a
see through lingerie hanging from her body. Hanging, holding onto her breasts
and her stuck out hips that highlight her round ass—the edge of which is
what I see from the front. The blood that has swilled around my head, fueling
my cogitation, now rushes to my cock and I try to stay strong. Don't fall for
this siren call. She's spoken to me about her ability to control men, and I'd
always tried to stand above the fray by pretending not to care.

I try to look away from her body.

In a few strides, her hips swinging,
she's in front of me.

So, my hero. I bet you were thinking
about leaving me. Weren't you?

She says this with a smile on those
pouting lips and her hand on my erection that bravely pants from my jeans.

Whatever you mean?

I keep my eyes on hers so that I
may better stay strong. It's a fool's hope. She pushes herself in front of me
and the aroma of her sex, wet I imagine, hits me, and all resolve—if I
ever had any—disappears and I let my hands trail her hips. She's been
chiseled from the greatest material. She's so beautiful it hurts, but right now
it wouldn't matter because my perception has minimized the visual and I only
think in small moves, in small hopes of small moves, in smell, and in lust.

She pushes me down and removes my
pants. I feel her hand moving, like she's always known how to move, and I breathe
so that I don't convulse to her touch. Soon I have all of her in my hands, then
all of me in her. The first shuddering doesn't last long, and I take all of her
in my move. Nibbling, a sweet and sour taste that only she manages to keep so
delicious and as I hear her moan, see her arch her back, I grow larger and I
see that there isn't a thing to stop the desire that launches itself again in
my heart and roars out at her. An anger grows. She smiles at me. I slap ass.
She moans louder. Again and again. I push in. I slap face. A look of surprise.
I slap again. She arches her back. Further pushing to a side she prefers,
further holding myself back. She writhes. I am in charge, but if that was ever
true it lasts until the burst.

The next moment we are next to each
other, now only exploring the skin, leaving the lust behind. Only talking. Now.
Just the talking. That hope that we can penetrate the not knowing with knowing
through talking and the combination of an act that can only be considered
exposure of more than normal.

You liked that?

Of course. I say with a gruff voice
that comes out of nowhere.

She leans herself up on her arm on
one side and stares at me.

Have you ever been scared?

It's an odd question and I ponder
what she means to gain by it.

Just answer.

Why?

You're always scheming, aren't you?

I think for a second. It seems a
rather hypocritical charge.

Oh come on, and answer. She pokes
me when she says this. I feel a deflation of the connection between us and I
think about what I'm doing here.

It depends on what you mean by
scared. I say and hope that she doesn't push into my time in the military. It
has, for the most part, been an out of bounds topic.

That is such bullshit. She says and
fake punches my cock and I laugh. Her eyes are sparkling. She always did like a
challenge.

It isn't bullshit. Have you ever been
scared?

I have. I've thought about you
leaving me and I've been scared.

That seems like a bullshit answer,
but I know not to say anything about it. My hand glides over the valley of her
waist, from her hips, it falls on her ass. Round. Ridiculously round.

What did you do? I ask half afraid
of the answer. Have I ever been scared? Of course, I desire life don't I?

You're getting that look again. She
says, playfully tapping my nose.

What do you mean?

She smiles at my defensive remark.

You know exactly what I mean.

Does that mean you're not going to
answer my question?

I was tired of that life. It's the
same everywhere, isn't it?

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