cherries
posted this on oasis a while ago, altho i had originally meant to revise it before i ever posted it anywhere else. heh. who knows if i'll ever really get it revised... -_-;
non-fiction.
original posting found here.
. . . . .
we couldn't go up to brittany's room because her mother is always suspicious when i am over. she has this strange idea that i, of all people, have turned her daughter gay. (she misses the point that one, you can't turn someone gay, and two, her daughter has known that she was bi longer than i have.) but i suppose that is what one can expect of their girlfriend's mother when said girlfriend's mother is a bit closed-minded and already dislikes one.
but the cherries. the cherries were huge, glistening, black-red, perfectly cherry-shaped, cherry-colored, and cherry-scented. exactly what you would want from a cherry; sweet, sweet black cherries with the lightest hint of tang. we took them into the living room because now, two girls in love, we were no longer above suspicion the way we were before we started kissing. i hold the bucket of cherries in my lap, and she holds the container of whipped cream. the tv is on to cover up our laughter, but it might as well not be there. we're not watching. my world consists entirely of her fingers descending towards my mouth. the stem refuses to be parted from it's fruit. i growl; we laugh. i yank on the cherry with my teeth until it comes free, both of us giggling at our failed attempt to be romantic. i have to spit of the pit, another failure of the cherry as a sex fruit. my red-stained fingers brush whipped cream off of britt's cheek
we repeat the process. we make a mess. there is whipped cream on everything, and spitting out cherry pits is enough to keep us from doing anything but laugh, and drop more cherries in each other's mouths. britt's mother returns, angry, throws open the door. she wants to know why we're laughing. what're we doing? why are we having so much fun? how dare we close the door?
we dutifully carry the fruit back to the kitchen. leave the living room door open. curl up on seperate couches. watch the tv like we are expected.
non-fiction.
original posting found here.
. . . . .
we couldn't go up to brittany's room because her mother is always suspicious when i am over. she has this strange idea that i, of all people, have turned her daughter gay. (she misses the point that one, you can't turn someone gay, and two, her daughter has known that she was bi longer than i have.) but i suppose that is what one can expect of their girlfriend's mother when said girlfriend's mother is a bit closed-minded and already dislikes one.
but the cherries. the cherries were huge, glistening, black-red, perfectly cherry-shaped, cherry-colored, and cherry-scented. exactly what you would want from a cherry; sweet, sweet black cherries with the lightest hint of tang. we took them into the living room because now, two girls in love, we were no longer above suspicion the way we were before we started kissing. i hold the bucket of cherries in my lap, and she holds the container of whipped cream. the tv is on to cover up our laughter, but it might as well not be there. we're not watching. my world consists entirely of her fingers descending towards my mouth. the stem refuses to be parted from it's fruit. i growl; we laugh. i yank on the cherry with my teeth until it comes free, both of us giggling at our failed attempt to be romantic. i have to spit of the pit, another failure of the cherry as a sex fruit. my red-stained fingers brush whipped cream off of britt's cheek
we repeat the process. we make a mess. there is whipped cream on everything, and spitting out cherry pits is enough to keep us from doing anything but laugh, and drop more cherries in each other's mouths. britt's mother returns, angry, throws open the door. she wants to know why we're laughing. what're we doing? why are we having so much fun? how dare we close the door?
we dutifully carry the fruit back to the kitchen. leave the living room door open. curl up on seperate couches. watch the tv like we are expected.
1 Comments:
i like this one^^...simple strong statement...there's a poem in the ap english book you need to read...i think it's called 'in the waiting room" or something like that...if that's not the exact title, you'll know it's the right one by it's contents...i wish i could remember who wrote it....
~*~*~*gnat
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