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May 25, 2016 | Fiction

Catch Up Over Drinks or Coffee

Lisa Locascio

Catch Up Over Drinks or Coffee photo

Hey. Let’s. You know? I understand you are coming to me dogsleigh across ten thousand miles of tundra, and I know this is different from what we discussed, but I hope we can catch up over drinks or coffee.

Hi there! Thanks for the update note. Can I call you? You had in your mind this vision of the two of us floating over the city, cocooned in spun sugar and stuck together at the crotch, but after giving it some thought I would love it if we could instead just briefly encounter one another in a crowded elevator at my office. Seventh floor, one forty-three PM. Be there!

It will be great to hear how you have been! Hope we can get to everything in the seven seconds I have allotted our interaction. I know we discussed taking a room at the five-star hotel for seventy-two hours of bathing in draughts of each other’s joy and loss, but it works better for me to spy you from an opposite train platform and raise my hand in a wan gesture of recognition, never entirely sure that it’s you I am waving at. Can’t wait to see you!

We had discussed you painting your name on my back with your tongue, but can we instead have you do an aisle or two with me at the grocery store? Definitely New Age Drinks, maybe Ethnic. I know we said we’d descend lost into the city catacombs, grope forward with only desire to guide us. Right now I’m feeling more of a see each other at the bar and yell incomprehensibly over the music, meaning to but never actually talking kind of thing, though. You know?

When you said that you hoped we could spend time together, I know what you had in mind. Us driving a melting black road hellfire down into a void, sunset optional, our clothes and bags and jobs and lives and faces burning off and into the nothing behind, until we are only two energies clinging to the other’s axis, your mouths crying onto my hands and cock until your tears are what we are and the car is just a bubble and we evaporate into the unblinking eye of the sun.

I know that’s what you wanted. But the truth is that I am terrified of you. In my sleep your desire opens up in front of me, a red maw, and I tremble. Whatever toe or foreskin I once dipped in there was quite the risk, and now I think the excitement I felt when you snake-moved until your skin came clean off was in fact horror. For the rest of my life it’s going to be flat-front-khakied brunettes with a genetically diminished capacity for pleasure for me, I think. I’m lucky, I realize now, that I got out with my dick and face intact.

I hope you understand. We can talk about it, over drinks or coffee.

 

image: Sean Fitzgerald


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