domingo, 23 de junio de 2013

The Bluest Eye

He used to come easing into bed sometimes, not too drunk. I make out like Im asleep, cause its late, and he taken three dollars out of my pocketbook that morning or something. I hear him breathing, but I dont look around. I can see in my minds eye his black arms thrown back behind his head, the muscles like great big peach stones sanded down, with veins running like little swollen rivers down his arms. Without touching him I be feeling those ridges on the tips of my fingers I sees the palms of his hands calloused to granite, and the long fingers curled up and still. I think about the thick, knotty hair on his chest, and the two big swells his breast muscles make. I want to rub my face hard in his chest and feel the hair cut my skin. I know just where the hair growth slacks out -just above his navel- and how it picks up again and spreads out. Maybe hell shift a little, and his leg will touch me, or I feel his flank just graze my behind. I dont move even yet. Then he lift his head, turn over, and put his hand on my waist. If I dont move, hell move his hand over to pull and knead my stomach. Soft and slow-like. I still dont move, because I dont want him to stop. I want to pretend sleep and have him keep on rubbing my stomach. Then he will lean his head down and bite my tit. Then I dont want him to rub my stomach anymore. I want him to put his hand between my legs. I pretend to wake up, and turn to him, but not opening my legs. I want him to open them for me. He does, and I be soft and wet where his fingers are strong and hard. I be softer than I ever been before. All my strength in his hand. My brain curls up like wilted leaves. A funny, empty feeling is in my hands. I want to grab holt of something, so I hold his head. His mouth is under my chin. Then I dont want his hand between my legs no more, because I think Im softening away. I stretch my legs open, and he is on top of me. Too heavy to hold, and too light not to. He puts his thing in me. In me. I wrap my feet around his back so he cant get away. His face is next to mine. The bed springs sounds like them crickets used to back home. He puts his fingers in mine, and we stretches our arms outwise like Jesus on the cross. I hold on tight. My fingers and my feet hold on tight, because everything else is going, going. I know he wants me to come first. But I cant. Not until he does. Not until I feel him loving me. Just me. Sinking into me. Not until I know that my flesh is all that be on his mind. That he couldnt stop if he had to. That he would die rather than take his thing out of me. Of me. Not until he has let go of all he has, and give it to me. To me. To me. When he does, I feel a power. I be strong, I be pretty, I be young. And then I wait. He shivers and tosses his head. Now I be strong enough, pretty enough and young enough to let him make me come. I take my fingers out of his and put my hands on his behind. My legs drop back onto the bed. I dont make no noise, because the chilren might hear. I begin to feel those little bits of color floating up into me deep in me. That streak of green from the june-bug light, the purple from the berries trickling along my thighs, mamas lemonade yellow runs sweet in me. Then I feel like Im laughing between my legs, and the laughing gets all mixed up with the colors, and Im afraid Ill come, and afraid I wont. But I know I will. And I do. And it be rainbow all inside. And it lasts and lasts and lasts. I want to thank him, but dont know how, so I pat him like you do a baby. He asks me if Im all right. I say yes. He gets off me and lies down to sleep. I want to say something, but I dont. I dont want to take my mind offen the rainbow. I should get up and go to the toilet, but I dont. Besides, he is asleep with his leg throwed over me. I cant move and dont want to.

Toni Morrison

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