The Dirges of Hope

The job was over, and it had not had a pretty outcome. I was at one of those wonderful Costa Rican hotels that make traveling almost as comfortable as home. The only things missing were the little personal touches that we all put into our lives. There was an open window, so I could hear the rain and not the air conditioning, a small luxury. Sleep just wasn't in the cards for me that night, as I watched the water bead and streak the skylight. The moonlight formed little prisms at the edges of the flowing drops. It was the hotel soap that brought her to mind, with it's thick, expensive Italian smell.

Her name was Billy Jean. Looking back I can't recall how she roped me into that job. She would work her father's sugar cane farm as hard as any man. I spent a long-ago summer working that two-bit farm with her. I remember smelling her sweat on the breeze, the rich musky scent of overheated girl. After the day was finished, she would scrub herself clean and shinny. No perfume, just that soap she ordered from the back of a magazine. She was proud of that soap.

At night we would lay naked of the roof of the old abandoned grain silo, exploring one another. Her body was toned and muscular in a way that only came from hard work. No health club ever turned out a specimen like her. As we would kiss, the calluses on her hands would scratch me as they gently ran the length of my back. The feeling is so fresh in my mind that I can feel the hairs on my neck standing up. I would cup her breasts in my hand, and as her breath began to catch, I could feel her nipples stiffen. We always made it last as long as we could, that slow and gentile taking of one another. Careful not to make a sound, lest we be caught. We would come at the same time, her muscles tightening around me. That summer the only world that existed between us was on top of that silo. After, while she lay asleep in my arms, I would stay awake just a little longer to inhale that expensive Italian soap. It always made me feel free, and I would think of the little love words I would speak to her tomorrow.

Memories of her became the harbinger of others, their faces passing through my mind. Sometimes there was a name with the face. Jane came next, my crass little heavy metal girl. Always trying to seem so experienced and jaded. She always wanted to look like nothing affected her, and that I was a pointless creature. The way she flinched at my first touch cracked her mask. Her hands shook so badly the first time that she couldn't undo the clasp of the bra that held captive her small breasts. I could feel the bones of her hips; she was so slim. The movement of my hands between her legs made her tremble again. She would cry, and I would stop only to have her pull me close. She was never able to relax that first time, but there were others.

Then came the memory of Crystal from a college history course. She cut a hole in her jeans so I could finger her in class. I only call her Crystal because I can't remember her real name. There was the picture of Margaret slipping under the table at a fancy French restaurant in Calgary, expertly taking me into her mouth after too much red wine. The little wink in her eye when she came up reminded me of how everything amused her. Sondra laying on the deck of my boat, her body covered in oil and glistening in the sun, one hand slowly moving in circles over her clit as I watched. I remember watching Tina shave between her legs for our trip to the beach. A pointless action, her hair was too blonde and fine to be noticed. The way Mary's breasts bounced under her shirt when she wasn't wearing a bra. The scar on Kelly's hip, the result of an indefinable ugliness that still turns my stomach, but beautiful none-the-less. The showers Bridget and I took together. The suffocating smell of Billy Jeans soap. I no longer felt free.

No, I would not sleep tonight. Tomorrow I would ask the maid for another bar of soap, but tonight the rain and I would remember Billy Jean.