So, it’s my birthday. And not just any birthday… it’s my 40th. I have spent 4 decades on this planet. I guess I was expecting something profound to happen. Some new skill or thought process or life changing event to happen.
Four decades in, and I’m still waiting for something more. Some undefined more.
Eh. The day is still young… even if I’m not. LOL.
Anyway, today’s story is a short one. It’s all about touch, connectedness, closeness. Hope you enjoy it!
Ours.
By: Katrina Mitchell
He was 90’s fine. Sharp, low cut caesar, meticulously groomed goatee, brown skin dazzling. Diamond studs in each ear. And I could stare at his dimpled smile all day. But, it was the chains for me.
Three of them. One gold cuban link, one gold rope, and one long figaro. It was the way they dangled from his neck. My hands reached out on their own, curious, jealous of the jewelry that got to sit against his skin all day. That caught his sweat, gleamed in the light, and brightened his face.
The chains taunted me, teased me as they swang. He was working, grunts and moans filling the room. But it was the tiny clang of metal that caught my ear.
“You feel so good,” he’d say. “I could stay here forever.”
“We get to live on him forever,” they’d laugh.
“Does it feel good to you?” he’d ask.
“We get to feel him all the time,” they’d say.
This man, beautiful and strong and completely puddy in my lap, and I still wanted to be those chains. I wanted to be on him all the time, feeling his heartbeat, lifting with his chest as he breathed.
We lay, wrapped in each other. My fingers gliding along his sweat-slicked skin. Still, the chains persisted. “This is ours. You’re only a visitor.”
I grab the cuban link, wrapping it around my finger. “How long have you had this one?” I ask him.
“Let me go!” the cuban yelled.
“Shit, maybe five years,” he said.
I drop the cuban link and tug on the rope. “And this one?”
“Hey! Stop it!” the rope screamed in a high pitch.
“I got this one maybe three years ago.”
I let the rope go, and my fingers walked to the figaro, who was already protesting.
“Don’t touch me!” the figaro yelled.
“And this?” I say, placing the figaro gently in my palm.
“I said no!” said the figaro.
“That one? I think that was the first one I bought. That one has been with me forever.”
I wrapped my fingers around chains and tugged.
“Ahhh!” they screamed.
“Can I wear them?” I asked, making my voice syrupy and light. He nodded, sat up, and unclasped each chain. The figaro fell to his lap, shrieking on the way down. The cuban link was next, and his “Nooooo” dragged and bellowed like a whale’s call. Last was the rope, which fought against the separation, but fell unceremoniously compared to the others.
“Turn around,” he said.
I turned, lifting my hair from my neck. He picked up the rope, and wrapped it around my neck, clasping it gently. He did the same for the cuban link and the figaro. Then I turned towards him, my fingers on the warm gold.
“Damn,” he said. “They look better on you. I think you should keep them.”
“WHAT!” they screamed.
I smiled, and leaned into him, and kissed his bare neck. “Maybe we can just share.”
