Writing I – Miss Elevator Eyes
His boxers were blue and white striped.
“Well, that’s fitting,” she thought, “How incredibly significant our matching underwear is.” She looked down at her own pink and white striped underwear set. She bought it just last week in anticipation of an occasion like this.
What was this, anyways? A one night stand? A perfunctory tromp through the marshes of early college life? An adolescent display of carnal desire befitting a thirty year old exploitation film? Surely she was past thinking about her life in terms of the movies she saw. And yet, when she thought about her current situation, really thought about it, it wasn’t all too far off from something she’d seen last month on the big screen of a movie house.
They were in a dorm room; lights off, blinds shut, kissing feverishly on a twin XL bed with a dark green sheet set. He had put a tie on the door and texted his roommate not to come home for a few hours. Both she and he knew what was about to happen. In fact, everyone, from the guard at the door to the red-headed girl in the elevator knew what was going to happen. She reflected on this thought, silently cursing the Miss Elevator Eyes as the boy deftly unhooked her bra straps to caress what was underneath with surprising grace and gusto.
She looked into his eyes as she had the first time she had seen him, roughly three hours before. She hadn’t been all too impressed with his name, nor with the humorless way he sipped his beer, but she fell in love with his eyes and they brought her here.
“I love you,” he claimed casually as he climbed on top of her.
“I love you too,” she replied automatically.
He was there all around her, holding her, touching her, making her alive. Making her skin hot and sticky, and her thoughts a little cloudy. And when it was over he lay beside her, stroking her hair and whispering in her ear until she fell asleep. She should have felt joy or pleasure or even serenity, but she felt nothing.
Her eyes fluttered open as he kissed her on the cheek.
“Oh no darling, you sleep. I told Sarah to take the kids to the park until noon.” He patted her head affectionately and put on his fedora, the one she had bought him last Christmas. She glanced down at the pant leg on his blue pin-striped suit as he stepped quietly out the door.
They were in Middleton Massachusetts, in a sleepy town where they lived for five years with their two children (Timmy, aged 7, and Lucy, aged 4) and their dog (Spark) and all manner of peace and tranquility. She dressed quickly, set her hair, and walked downstairs, her hoop skirt presenting her to no one. It was a warm morning, warmer than was usual for late September. But she had always liked the heat, so she opened the blinds and the kitchen window and stood by it as she put away the dishes from dinner last night. She looked out into the backyard.
Yet she was not looking at the tree house and the tall blades of bright suburban grass. Instead, she was staring blindly into the events of last night; the so-called passionate romp with her so-called “charming and handsome” husband of ten years. The ten delightful years that had been holding hands and chatting late into the night; vacations and parties and few fights in between. Ten years of sex and love and wonderful marriage.
And she was feeling,
Nicole Horowitz is a third year undergraduate at New York University, studying theatre, film, counter-culture, and all things writing. She is from Orange County, California, enjoys movies and the sunshine, and hopes to one day move back to Los Angeles. This was a labor of love and is her first piece of published work.