Delusions aren’t reliable, except when they are. Her lips to my ear, then mine to hers. I knew it had paid off. How sweet she was, a pomegranate bare, staining my hands.
Her name was Alyshia, but she let me call her Aly. She says I was cold to her the first time we met. I don’t remember it too well, other than telling my friend immediately afterward that she reminded me of Anya Taylor-Joy. Aly loved 80s and 90s rock. She looked as if she had come from then, and didn’t ruin it bullshiting herself, acting like she belonged there rather than here. Jet black hair complemented her pale skin, adorned in thrift-store outfits.
I knew her for two years before I learned anything personal. One more, and she’d wish I never did. Aly was nonchalant about everything, which could be comforting or annoying. Even when she feigned authenticity I could never tell if she was serious. She only ever smiled; I don’t remember what difference anger made.
We found common ground being the only middle-class Mexicans at a school seething with trust-fund babies. Her Spanish was far better than mine, given she had grown up there rather than here. Sometimes her English was better than mine, too; she was better than me at a lot of things. It was her most attractive quality.
In the first year or so we fell into a pretty cozy social circle. Our mutual love of music and literature was the glue holding us together. She got me into listening to CAN and reading Cookie Mueller and I put her onto Stereolab and John Williams. We weren’t as close as we were to others but I enjoyed having her around. She was particularly good at conversation. God, I don’t think I’ll meet someone better. Whenever she spoke, her eyes locked onto mine and wouldn’t let go. Filled with hunger and competition, goading me to beat her game. To be funnier, wittier, more intelligent. It was nearly impossible to win. If you could, you’d keep chasing it again and again. So I did.
Once a week our group ritualistically destroyed our bodies with alcohol, only ever taking a break for exams. It was a nice escape from some of their pretentiousness when they acted like real people. A different apartment each week, 10 or 12 undergraduates, and 6 or 7 bottles of the cheapest shit we could find. By the third week we had developed a tradition called ‘kissing friends.’ Sitting in a circle, we would all pour the shot of the person to our right and take a little sip before letting them drink. It was kind of disgusting, but the idea was that our lips would kiss without touching. Somewhat romantic. The unofficial rule was that by the end of the night, you had to remember who poured your first shot and kiss them. Considering how drunk we got, people rarely remembered and kissed whomever they wanted. This usually meant the girls would kiss each other, but every now and then they threw the guys a bone.
Aly almost never kissed, despite flirting with just about everyone. If she did, it was only ever with our friend Cynthia as we all approached blackout. When our group opted for barhopping we’d delight in watching her make a fool out of men. On one occasion, we watched her charm some poor middle-aged guy into buying her a handful of drinks and our Uber home. As we drove away, I remember drunkenly saying to her over the hisses and laughs of our friends “No manches…como una pitón…” A devilish smile spread across her face and she laughed, hitting my arm lightly before resting her head against the window. Pitón became our mutual nickname. It was one of the only things she would say to me in Spanish, resisting my attempts at conversation.
No one could know her enough to weaken her. Any attempts ricocheted off her impenetrable smile. I watched many try, failing as soon as they locked eyes. To be fair, I was similarly weakened by her. Following finals, our group decided to indulge far more than usual. We booked bottle service at a club, got lost in the city, and drank to exhaustion at a friend’s townhouse. Some of our friends had decided they were in love and suspiciously left to “use the bathroom.” Michael, the incipient stoner, was tripping out of his mind in the kitchen while Cynthia tried to calm him down. Aly and I sat next to each other in the living room, trading hits off an Elf Bar while watching car crash compilations. We tried to guess whether people survived or died, but after a while it got boring and non-verbal. She eventually eyed the bottle of Vodka next to me. “Give me it, pitón.” I looked over at her, saying desperately with my eyes “No puedo hacerlo.” She didn’t care. I both hated and loved her inability to be satisfied. She pushed herself until she broke, you could never be good enough for her. After my failure to give in, she reached over me and grabbed the bottle. “For that, you’ll take two” she scolded. I groaned a bit, but knew I couldn’t resist. She would hold me down and make me if I tried, and I really wouldn’t mind. She threw back her shot and watched eagerly as I struggled to get mine down.
By that point, I had already felt myself losing balance as we sat on the floor together. I’m not sure exactly how, but my head ended up on her lap. Had I been sober, my shock wouldn’t have been contained. She could, and probably would have, easily pushed my head away or made me lay on the couch. She didn’t. I did my best not to spoil the moment. Her fingers combed through my hair, running over my mind: I became addicted. She knew the weight of my soul then and there. Between her hands lie all of me, and the best I could do to thank her was stir and hum quietly.
Cynthia eventually returned and started talking to her. My head laid against her shoulder in the backseat, silently begging. The street lights flooded my eyelids as her fingers sifted through my hair once more. I stood outside my door, fumbling for my keys as I balanced against her. When I walked inside something bubbled in my throat. As I deposited alcohol and slop into the toilet, she held my head and sat with me. I didn’t question her. I’m sure I would’ve done the same, though she’d never let me.
After sufficiently emptying my guts long enough to be stable she walked me to my room and I fell onto my bed. I thanked her and apologized at least a thousand times, but she shrugged all of them off. Before I could get under my sheets and pass out, she looked down at me. Her eyes were different. Hunger stained her pupils without restraint. She bent down so our faces were only a few inches apart. I could smell Cynthia’s loud perfume. ”¿Quieres besarme pitón?” My eyes widened. She got a little closer “Fuiste mi primer beso.” It wasn’t a question. Trapped within her coil, I knew now how it felt to be consumed. Terrified, but grateful to have been chosen. She could have eaten anyone, but it was only her and I, alone together. I was special. She pressed her lips against mine without permission; they felt like flowers. Before it could go anywhere, she pulled away and gently caressed the side of my neck. I became like all her poor meals before: only alive enough to know her. She laughed softly, and as our eyes opened, she avoided my gaze. I am not sure I have ever loved a woman more than that moment. She could cut me to the bone and I’d praise her. All the scars I’d cherish from her loving violence.
That night I became addicted. What I wouldn’t give to let her harm me, love me, choose me. This was the start of a new game. And, a new torture.
note: thank you, dear reader. part ii coming soon…
oh we are BAAAACKKKKKKKK
this is so quietly devastating and beautiful , i love the way you write