…But Her Eyes Will Always Say Yes

The following is an installment from my short story collection Sex + Violence: A Dark Fiction Anthology.

“Lord have mercy,” I gush in my mind, “Baby’s got her blue jeans on indeed.”

The Good Ol’ Boys on stage. Busting out that Mel McDaniel classic. Couples and groups of friends fill the hardwood dance floor. A mix of nightclub two-stepping, line dancing, and vague swaying to the music. The barriers dividing these contrasting styles increasingly blended thanks to nonstop alcohol consumption. Faces changing color across the spectrum. Endlessly as club lighting moves through its own dance. But with definite choreography. Repetitively. Like a Philip Glass score. Except for no one here has any idea who he is. Not even me. Mirror ball highlights fall like glitter upon figures moving between rainbow illumination and shadow. The lead guitarist hints at having a fusion background while playing the chorus hook. That’s what I’d think if I knew anything about jazz fusion. Or jazz.

“Hey!” Earl leans back into my ear while he sort of nightclub two-steps with Faye, “Doesn’t this song remind you of the Green Acres theme?”

“Stop it!” I nudge him off me, “I love this song!”

Martha is making me love it more than ever. Facing away. Shaking her firm round twentysomething ass. Bending over and grinding on me. I’m overwhelmed with so many sensations at once. Arousal, of course. There’s also happiness. And self-doubt. Elated that she feels so relaxed in my company. She should. I’ve gone all out to be a friend to her since my gaze first encountered those big brown eyes. That impossibly bright smile. Cutting deep into my core every time I see it. My heart skips multiple beats when she turns and flashes it once again. Flipping her long, dark hair all around as if the song has a faster tempo than it does. So silly and playful. Laughing from the sheer joy she’s experiencing in this moment. I find myself laughing too. Lost in each other’s eyes.

But I still can’t help but wonder who I’m kidding. Martha is young and vibrant. Not a single line crosses the porcelain skin of her gorgeous face. And here I am. Middle-aged. Convinced that my face has developed a new wrinkle every time I look in a mirror. I also don’t keep the extra pounds off as easily anymore. When I was young, girls raved about my ass. Telling me it was perfect. Voices dripping with jealousy. As if each wanted it for herself. The young women still compliment my aesthetics. Even calling me sexy. Maybe it’s the carnal appeal of maturity. Or perhaps they’re just being nice. Either way, I’d do anything to turn back the clock. To once again be youthful, lean, and fresh-faced. Selling my soul for all of it in a heartbeat.

The band slows things down. Launching into its rendition of “A Long Line of Love” by Michael Martin Murphey. You know? The guy who sang “Wildfire” in the seventies. As everyone else on the dance floor pairs up or exits, Martha looks at me sassily. Wide-eyed. Pouty lipped. Telling me we’re going to do this. Giggling while she puts her hands on my shoulders. She giggles even harder when I grab her waist. I laugh with her. Hoping that she’s laughing with me. That must be it. Clearly, she trusts me. Or we wouldn’t be slow dancing together. The sentimental melody of the song. The array of colors dancing around us. Martha’s heartbreaking smile. It’s all so intoxicating. Confusing. Frustrating. I can’t get enough of this. And yet part of me worries what people watching us are thinking. I know she and I make for quite a sight. The unlikeliest dance partners on the floor right now.

I know in this moment that I must have her. In a way that no one else ever could. It’s not that I want her. Rather, I want to consume her. The youthful exuberance and innocence. That perfect ass. And that perfect face. She is my fountain of youth incarnate. My key to rejuvenescence. My salvation. Not that she’s the only one. I make friends with every beautiful young woman I can. But Martha is here now. And so is tonight. It’s not enough to have her in a conventional sense. Best friend. Adopted daughter. Secret lover. Any of those would be wonderful. As well as expectedly pedestrian. Fuck that. I want something much deeper. Forbidden. Taboo. I want every second of my life filled with the electricity I feel right now with her kissing my cheek at the end of the song. She takes my hand and leads me off the dance floor.

“Are you sure?” I plead with her in the parking lot, “We won’t be out too late.”

“I’m sorry, but I have to be at work early,” she eases my disappointment with her angelic smile as she always does, “I feel like if I don’t go to bed now, I’ll be dragging all day tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I feign understanding, “You be safe driving home.”

“I will,” she hugs me and doesn’t seem to mind when I pretend to accidentally turn my head and make her second kiss on the cheek one on the lips instead, “You be safe too.”

I watch her leave the parking lot, pull onto eastbound Interstate 40 towards Lonoke, and disappear from my sight. Before jumping in my car. Heading the opposite direction towards North Little Rock. Then north on concurrent US Routes 67 and 167 to Cabot. Catching up with the rest of the gang for a late-night supper at Red Tomato. Despite Martha’s early exit, nothing can dull my edge on this Friday night. Not the endless urban sprawl of mass consumerism comprising this section of North Little Rock. That is if I knew there was something wrong with it. Nor does the vomit-inducing repulsiveness of Jacksonville from the highway bring me down. The summer solstice may be wrapping, but I’m out to make my summer an endless one. Because I have a backup plan. She’s not quite Martha in my eyes but far above any port in a storm.

The restaurant is busy even at this hour. So much happening within its wood-paneled confines. Gluttony the deadly sin du jour of the moment. Diners chasing the dragon of personal fulfillment through gastronomic excess. That’s how I’d describe things if I had any shred of sophistication. But we all know what it means when Earl nearly comes to blows with some fat fuck – even fatter than Earl – over Houston Nutt. That’s reasonable. While Earl and the guys threaten to drag Fatty McFatass outside and teach him a lesson, Faye and the girls gossip about bingo at the lodge the other night. Debating whether one of the regular players has gout. Normally, I would jump in the middle of any prattle around football or bingo. But not tonight. “Calling All Angels” by Train hangs softly in the air. A song so tailor-made for restaurant background play that you expect to hear it. I remember when this song came out. Martha was a little kid then. So was our waitress, Norma.

I can’t help but gaze at Norma moving nonstop between the kitchen and the tables in her section. Making sure we’re all taken care of. Even that morbidly obese Houston Nutt fanboy. She’s a really pretty girl just like Martha. With her own flawless skin and tight young butt. The hour is late, yet she moves gracefully amongst the crowd with boundless energy and enthusiasm. Her kind and cheerful demeanor never faltering. Generous enough to chat with me during what few seconds she can afford to spare. Picking up where we left off during brunch last Sunday. When I faked giving a shit about her art and inquired about viewing her paintings in person. Claiming my living room needs additional color. Maybe I can score a visit to her place this weekend. And now she’s headed back my way. I try to forget about the lines on my face and muster forth all the inner warmth I can.

“Um… Norma,” I fight to contain my nervousness with forced restraint, “Remember last Sunday when we were talking about your art…”

“Of course,” she lights up even more to my delight, “Hey…” she holds up a finger while looking at the clock above the kitchen pickup window, “I know this sounds crazy. And I totes understand if you don’t want to, but… Would you like to come over after my shift tonight?”

“Really?” I can’t believe my luck, “I can do that.”

“Are you sure?” she double checks, “I’ll be home by one. I know that’s really late,” she laughs nervously.

“It’s no problem at all, sweetie,” I try to avoid showing too much excitement, “That gives me time to swing by the ATM and grab some more cash,” I pat myself on the back for building up her hopes even higher with that ATM bullshit.

“Oh wow… Great!” she writes down her number and address on a ticket, “I only live a few blocks away.”

“Excellent,” I say to no one as she’s already waiting on another diner, “See you then.”

It’s 1:15 am. I creep down a narrow residential street off Arkansas Highway 89. After sitting in the parking lot of a nearby drug store for the past two hours since departing the restaurant. To be fair, I did run in and grab supplies for my visit to Norma’s. I texted her fifteen minutes ago and she gave me the green light. This old neighborhood fast asleep. All is dead quiet save for the purr of my motor. And “Slow Hand” by Conway Twitty oozing from my speakers. But can I pull this off with a slow hand? An easy touch? I know what I want tonight. It will all be mine if I can stay cool. Maintain my focus. Including right now while looking for her place. And examining my face in the rearview mirror. Concerned that I might start looking more my age at this hour.

I see Norma waiting for me from the doorway of her eighties-vintage duplex unit after I park behind her car in the driveway. The front lights of the brick-veneered dwelling compete with the shadows cast by black oak trees. Towering high above the neighborhood. Either to protect its inhabitants or hide my forthcoming transgressions from the world. We’ll see which argument wins as I head towards the current object of my obsession. The doorway framing her slender body and angelic face in exquisite perfection. Her eyes and smile glowing brighter than any star above. My adrenaline surges. Trying not to shake from a level of energy I haven’t felt in years. This excites me even more. Knowing that my fountain of youth is working her magic on me before I’ve consumed her.

“Hey,” she enthuses through exhaustion, “You made it.”

“Of course,” I imitate fatigue as best I can, “I can’t wait to see some art.”

“Well then,” she presents her living room as a gallery, “Right this way.”

I squeeze past Norma and find myself surrounded by abstract shapes on canvases. Showcasing an array of vibrant colors. At least, I would know that if I wasn’t only seeing red right now. She closes the door and moves to the center of the living room. Leading me through the grand tour without taking a step. Explaining in detail her inspiration behind creating each piece. I couldn’t care less about her shitty art or retarded dreams of being a professional artist. More focused on holding my fingers over my mouth. Nonchalantly. Struggling even more to contain my excitement as it shifts to a seething mix of passion and rage. Love and hate. Beauty and ugliness. Washing over me all at once. I can’t help it. And I don’t want to. I’m now a viper. Coiled tightly. Waiting for the right instant to strike.

“So, that’s it,” she giggles nervously while turning to face me, “Um… Do you…”

The nervous giggling turns to confused screaming when I explode in her direction. Charging full force. Quickly placing one hand over her mouth. Pushing her against the wall. Knocking half of her stupid paintings to the floor. Using my larger mass to pin her against a large white canvas of my own. Burying my face in her neck. She attempts to scream louder. I knee her in the stomach and force her head to the side. Exposing more of her soft neck. Carefully, I push the double edge razor blade on my tongue partially past my lips. Slashing her jugular and spitting out the blade in one swift, savage motion. Immediately kissing the wound. Devouring her young blood spraying into my hungry mouth. Sucking it with increasing force once the initial pressure subsides. The metallic flavor of her fountain of youth growing on me with each drop I consume. Each drop of her perfect skin and body. All of it now belongs to me.

I get my fill to the point of feeling like anymore will make me puke. Stepping back. She slumps to the floor. Whiter than the bloodstained wall behind her. Barely clinging to life. Weakly reaching a hand for the nearest painting on the floor. Now with a giant hole in the center after one of us stomped on it. I think it’s an improvement. I watch as she feebly grasps it for comfort in her dying hour. So pathetic. As is the rest of this drab unit. I guess waiting tables at Red Tomato and painting garbage doesn’t pay all that well. All her furniture clearly hand-me-downs from childhood. I’ll bet it makes her feel nostalgic. Stupid fucking bitch. I finally notice the large antique floor mirror propped against the opposite wall. And I see it all. The blood of youth covering my face. Running down my chin and neck. Soaking my black tunic. Making it cling to my breasts.

My breasts. As ample and inviting as ever. But needing that bra support a little more than before. No longer quite the perky titties that young girls like Martha and Norma have. But my ass is the bigger issue, pun intended. Growing ever wider and saggier. The saddlebags aren’t helping either. Not even my blue jeans can quite hold them in. And then there’s my face. Those fucking lines encroaching ever more on my face. A face once so smooth. Flawless. Angelic. Back when I was the Martha/Norma of my day. Tight. Sexy. Glowing. But those goddamn lines. The inevitable scourge of every woman. I hear it from all directions. My husband tells me I’m more beautiful than ever. But what does he know? He’s a guy. That makes him an idiot. I hear that from all directions too. If I were smart, I’d see through all the greed-driven corporate propaganda and media manipulation. But I’m not

Inspiration strikes as Norma gasps and sputters for air. So delicately. Even near death, she exudes grace and elegance. I want those qualities for myself too. I want it all. Pulling myself away from obsessing over my face in her mirror. Rolling my fountain of youth on her back. Straddling her torso. Holding down her arms with my knees. She’s so weak and helpless. Almost like a baby. My maternal instincts from raising two sons return.

“Shh…” I gently stroke her face and hair with one hand, “It’s okay, sweetheart. Liz is here. She’ll make it all better.”

I place my other hand over her mouth and nose. So drained of life that she struggles to struggle. Barely any fight. I watch as she resigns to closing her eyes. Praying for divine intervention. Or perhaps for her nightmare to end by any means necessary. It’s only a matter of time now. Finally, I feel her body relax underneath me. Forever at peace. Forever young.

My hand slides into my hip pocket. Removing the package of razor blades. I take one between my fingertips. Only cutting into them slightly while slicing through Norma’s skin. All around her face. Trembling with excitement and anticipation. Meticulously peeling it from her flesh. Starting at the hairline. Careful not to tear it. All the way to the jawline. I return to the mirror and lay her face over mine. The copious amount of blood and elasticity of her skin helps it stay in place. It’s so smooth. Flawless. Angelic. Perfect with no lines to be found. I retrieve my phone from my other hip pocket. Pulling up the original “Baby’s Got Her Blue Jeans On” by the late, great Mel McDaniel. Now serenading Norma in heaven. Cranking the volume. Watching in the mirror while dancing in my blue jeans. Enamored with the beautiful young face looking back at me. Now belonging to me. The blood of eternal youth inside me. Will any of this make me young again? If I ask the girl in the mirror, her mouth will say no…

…but her eyes will always say yes.