It was really only her hair that forced me to leave the warm, still moment that existed inside the car.  I didn’t know why, but as the unruly black curls whipped past my windshield, I wrapped the tangle of my hole-y gray scarf– the first I had ever knitted myself, and my favorite– around my face, looped my finger through my keyring, and opened the door into the wind.

 

That same morning, I sat on the edge of my bed. The left side, not the familiar right which was the closer to the wall. It was warmer than usual in the room, despite the heat quickly escaping through the cavernous maw of the open door. I shivered slightly for no particular reason. My breasts hung pendulously before me, slightly tender and bared to the morning air of the room.  Always, he greeted them first, but not in a way that made the tiny sometimes-feminist residing somewhere in the suburbia of my mind indignant. It was what he always did before we made love, so that made the gesture more romantic than objectifying, I suppose.

 

He would cup them gently and kiss along the collarbone, out to the shoulders, one at a time. We would lay back on the bed, and I would pull him down to me, hips first.

 

It turned out that she was shorter than I had guessed from the car, the top of her head probably only just reaching my chin. I didn’t approach her at first; I casually inspected peppers as she lingered over the romaine. I found it odd that she would do that; I promised myself that I would share with her my sentiment that romaine is overrated and only worth a second glance in comparison to iceberg, but comparing anything to iceberg is really meaningless. She would laugh and remember, and always choose arugula or chicory after that.

 

I remembered him gingerly picking his way over me and off of the bed– it was he who had kept me from my traditional spot, inadvertently. I had been in that misty half-dream world when he had gotten up, and that brief bit of consciousness had lapsed into another, bizarre dream sequence, as tends to happen in those strange moments that bridge sleep and waking. When I came to, I decided not to replace the oversized Florida t-shirt that lay crumpled on the floor and instead wandered, bare, down the hallway, my hair a wild beast leaping in all directions from my scalp. I discovered him in the kitchen, eating cereal. He smiled at me through a mouthful of the Cheerios I kept for him. He did not look at my breasts. I suppose they did not hold the allure of the night before. It was strange, for some reason, although his lack of attention wasn’t new. Kissing him on the forehead, I returned to the bedroom, tugged on carelessly paired jeans and sweater, and slipped out the door, letting myself out with an excuse of milk or bread.

 

It was then, in the parking lot of the grocery, I became immobile, obstinate. Leaving the car would mean retrieving the milk or bread or whatever other atonement I would purchase for my lie which would mean returning to the house with the cereal and the warmandcold room, and I just didn’t want to. I didn’t want his mouth on my shoulder or his cereal on my shelf or his body warming mine. When I saw her, she became my answer. It was not an excuse, and it was not a rebellion; it was a truth. I would make her laugh with my outrageous opinions on lettuce, and, suddenly, he would no longer have a place. I wondered what her hair felt like.

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My first effort. Written in one sitting, and exploring some bisexual tendencies I haven’t sorted out. I enjoy writing about freedom and sexual rebellion with the aim of figuring yourself out. Also, I seem to enjoy pissing of my significant others. That probably played a small part here.  Any feedback is more than welcome. Seriously, if I get a comment, I may cry. Bring it on, betches.

Here are some questions to respond to if you just want to act as a soundboard or whatever:

What do you think about exploring bisexuality?

What do you think about pissing off your SO? (Heh heh. But really, comment.)

Does the story seem, I dunno, well-written? Realistic? Tangible?

Lemme know!