———————

Arla was sitting beside him as they raced along the 101. The ocean to
their right appeared and disappeared through the hills. The wind swirled
into the Jag. He shifted gears. She seemed pleased with how he did that.
They drove up through the hills and it got cooler. It started to rain, or was
it mist?
“Hey, we’re driving through a cloud” he said.
The car felt snug and strong, and he looked over and what he saw,
what he saw, was Arla slipped down below window level with her skirt
hoisted up and her legs wide open and her panties pulled to the side…
Smiling like the sun and moon, she seemed to fill all the space in the cabin.
But Bobby was cool. He kept driving, as the wind tore at her skirt
in the corner of his eye.

Another time he had overstayed his welcome–probably–on her sofa.
He knew how to do that, and he knew what Arla would do about it.
“Bobby,” she would say, “aren’t you tired yet?” There was a lamp to
either side of the sofa, making the light in the room ever so soft and the
quietness of the house ever so loud.
“Oh, I dunno,” said Bobby, “I feel kinda tense, you know.”

They’d had a really nice night, all in that room. She had rattled on and
on about her girlfriends’ faults and life mistakes–all nineteen odd years of
their various lives–and he had pumped her for lascivious details as though
he could creep into her friends’ rooms also while they undressed. She
knew this and she fed him tidbits, but mainly she was listening to her own
voice. Six times at least, Bobby’s penis inflated and deflated. And now he
was “tense.” What that meant was that he wanted to be rewarded for being
such a damn good listener. This was not going to be a Platonic relationship
if he could help it! And Arla was mixing things up. He was the only
person she could trust. That didn’t sound good at all.
He had no need to worry.
“What’s that in your pants, Bobby?” she asked. “Your flashlight? Did
you bring your flashlight? Let me see it. Its so dark in here.” And she
clicked off a lamp.
Sweet talk.

————–

Arla, your name is your lips around my dick. Arla, I smell your hair
rising off my lap. Arla, your fingernails are perfect and your hands are
cool. Arla, your sweaters are spun from New Zealand sheep. Arla, you
sucked me into you and swallowed me into your head and hair. I did not
see your face until you turned over and said, as you laid on my right
thigh, “I’m just going to rest a minute; and then you must go.”
Bobby’s fingers were drumming on the wooden steering wheel. The
rain was coming down hard now. He should go. He pushed his keys into
the slot and twisted. Nothing. A click.
Oh jeez! Now what? He could go back in, try to speak to her, make
her remember. Or he could walk off into the rain. That would satisfy
something. But then he would have to come back with tow truck and
embarrass her and….
He tried to start the Jag again, and was about to try for a third time,
feeling more rotten and stupid and panicked by the moment, when the
passenger door opened.
Arla! Her hair was sprayed with drops but was not wet. Her face was
shining and damp as she tumbled into the seat beside him. She smelled of
wool and chocolate and everything good.
“Let’s drive!” she said.
Bobby prayed a prayer with the sincerity of an acetylene torch. He
could have willed the car to fly, and kept it flying, on his desire and
happiness alone. He turned the key. The Jag leapt to life. And the road
crunched under his tires.

From the house, Arla’s sister called her to the window.
“There’s that creep, Bobby James. I bet he’s been parked there for
hours again. I’m going to get rid of him.”
“Hey, be nice” said Arla.
She came to the window and watched Belinda cross the wet lawn to the
little Toyota. She saw Belinda open the passenger door and start yelling.
She watched the car pull away, and Belinda walking quickly, almost
running, back to the house.

–