I Can Never Finish What I Sta

A collection of short stories about the women I’ve never slept with.

Melanie’s skin pulses in the moonlight while her bright blonde hair shimmers against the feint glow of lamp post we pass on the way to my apartment. We are not alone; we’re not alone but I wish we were. Behind us trails heartbreak, hesitance, and three or four herertics stumbling on the nights high. Her boyfriend, The Wolf, stalks a few paces behind the five of us, snarling. It’s 4:30 in the morning but we refuse to give up the night, so we keep it hostage in my second floor studio: gagged by music loud enough to wake the neighbors and bound at the ankles by whatever is left of the wine my sister gave me for my birthday. Sunlight pierces thin daggers through the blinds to remind us another day has come and our youth is fading, so we shut the curtains and drown ourselves in the welcoming pool of blissful ignorance.

It was a time when words came more frequent while thoughts were far between. By now a mellow calm overtook our rambunctious rebellion of morning as soft nods and quiet tones steadily crept into the dialogues we’d only vaguely remember forever. Melanie’s milky smile became a more frequent sighting throughout the night, and on more than one occasion she’d met my gaze when daft affixation let my stare linger just a moment longer than I intended. (But she wouldn’t make it obvious.)

“Smoke-…” she said, awakening me from one of my trances. “You haven’t smoked all night.” Her tiny hand nudging my side, fueling an already fevering desire.

I haven’t, I want to say. I haven’t because I know you don’t like the habit. Because I’ve seen the way your cute faces winces each time The Wolf steps out to feed a craving. Because I want to impress you, because I want to hold you, because it is suddenly so very important to me that you think I smell good, and a part of me wants to prove I can be worth your kiss and late night phone calls.

But my lips betrayed my heart, and instead murmured “I think I’m out,” as I began to pat my pockets as if looking for a box of cigarettes or spine.   

Read Melanie Part I

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