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Chuck Maclean Clariion As they pushed their way onto the Red Line, Charlie instinctively knew she was trying to miss her 9. He could feel it like a premonition in the tightening of the space between his shoulder blades, the way the sound travelled up his spine when her Converse started to drag across the frost-bound platform at JFK—the right foot bent in, wearing a clean spot on the rubber toe.
She just tried to put him in her mouth again after—as if Charlie were to let her, it'd prove something.
Things she had done, had learned. Charlie'd told the Ex what had happened with the Girl.
Fuckev how he'd deserved that for all the bullshit he'd said and done. And Charlie said nothing. The Girl would just make her bus, if the T could only get through Southie.
If a girl is spraying gold shower. He didn't.
Why he'd left her. She had managed to stay an arm's length Clarionn him, all through the station, so he'd have to wait for her every ten feet, watching while the crowd squeezed them out of a place on the T. He thought of the Girl with the High Cheek Bones. My lips are dry. It was only a slight hint at the distance between them, but the raw humanness of it was enough to remind him of the smell his mother would leave on her Harvard sweatshirt—not that anyone in his family ever went to Harvard—that he'd wear to hockey practice before he was big enough for a jersey.
It was as if the Girl thought he was a pretty good guy, and would never let her do a thing like that. The myth was true, gitl least in his comparative ignorance, and he tried to think back to all the other girls he'd eaten—and whether or not they had thin lips to match what they had.
But Charlie couldn't admit that to himself yet, cause he was a pretty good guy. The doors shut.
She looked away from him, as if embarrassed, and a pain stirred deep in him, a starving sensation—a question in the pit of his stomach. But she only came, and when she was done, she laid fufked dead, grinning—until he finished on those parallel muscles above her waist.
Twang, twang, twang. Things he'd no longer care about after 9.
But Charlie just looked off, endlessly shaking his head to himself, like a man who changed his bet at the last minute and saw the first horse come in. It was too thick, too long, for her to bother washing on a two day trip up to Boston, and now it smelled—not bad, but in a geta way, like warmth.
And she told him he was—over and over again—him just sitting there on the hotel bed, watching her go off at the mouth. Her face was soft, smooth—like the pulled-tight satin on the edge of 's blanket.
And he threw her down and came at her from behind. Two days before the Girl had arrived, Charlie had run into his Ex by Mass General, in the neighborhood where the Ex lived, and where he'd always remember separating the bones in his knuckles by punching the brick outside her apartment like he could knock down the whole West End like Mayor Hynes did in the 50s.
He thought of that awkward conversation between them, him painfully trying to explain himself and her trying to draw it out of him quickly—like when he was eight years old trying to confess his impure thoughts to a too-eager priest. About vulnerability.
His friends had called her gorgeous. Others came on. Charlie remembered the first time he buried his face below her belly button, discovering the meaty lips and sucking them away from her body. He'd skate around the ice, smelling his mother on the shirt and felt warm. Chuck Maclean Lips As they pushed their way onto the Red Line, Charlie instinctively knew she was trying to miss her 9.
He could feel it like a premonition in the tightening of the space between his shoulder blades, the way the sound travelled up his spine when her Converse started to drag across the frost-bound platform at JFK—the right foot bent in, Clwrion a clean spot on the rubber toe. But all he managed to say was.
The night the Girl got off the bus at South Station, Charlie pulled her close as they came through the door of his basement apartment. His hand was purple for a week. Of course we were going to fuck. What she said hurt because she didn't believe him.
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