fff #43

thong gong bong wong & tongs

a gong goes off in my head as i collapse back into my bed of nothing leaving only a trail of smoke large enough to make a forest fire jealous. seconds roll by while i feel my throat stiffen and my eyes scream for mercy. the beautiful glass bong now sitting on the ground still spirals smoke from its barrel after firing four life threatening shots; two into you and two into me. as we lay in each other’s presence there is a sudden realization that you are no longer wearing your thong; the last piece of restricting clothing between us. i motivate myself enough to risk losing your smell and pull my eyes open and look into yours. your deep brown eyes pierce through my senses and into my soul where you resonate and ripple through my body. i edge closer but have to close my eyes again to breathe you in and remember that this is real. i edge closer. your touch makes me shiver and in the dark and i can concentrate on nothing but your heart beating in unison with mine. the bliss of the moment is almost too much to bear. euphoria.

the next morning i am turning the fried plantains with the tongs when you walk back into my life. i find myself reaching for words when your lips grab mine. this is when i realize you are colder than you were last night and not at all as soft. the clothing between us that was so restricting then is now comforting and provides enough of a wall that i don’t flashback to last night. “fried plantains,” i finally let spill from my mouth, realizing immediately that you have no intentions of eating them.

“i really gotta go,” you say, “last night was amazing, though.” making your way out of my arms and most likely out of my life. “call me sometime soon, yeah?”

i suddenly find myself thinking about how long i may wait to call, even though i know I never will.

“wait,” i spit out as you open the door. you turn and your eyes sink in one final time. “what’s your name?” i asked, turning away from your gaze to check the plantains.

“kaya. you can call me kaya. and what do i call you?”

turning back to look at the closed door and the emptiness, “wong.” i say, “call me wong”