Mayra Lazara Dole

I outline her profile with my charcoal pencil: her sunken eyes, a nose that broke when she fell off trying to ride a bike, the delicate shape of her lips, her round chin, elegant neck and a big puff of hair. I fill in details: her cheekbones pop out, her hair becomes wild tumbling locks, her thick eyebrows and long spidery lashes come alive in smudges of wavy browns. I even catch the way she’s looking away, so Hairy Taxi Guy doesn’t get any ideas. A deadly silence falls over me as wind funnels in through the windows. As I take my colored pencils and color everything in, words flash in front of me. They crash deep into me like wild waves, inspiring me to add the final touches: Luminous. Anxious. Dire. Tender. Lush. Breasts. Plump. Caresses. Humid. Radiant. Melancholy. Languorous. Tears. Shoulders. DON’T GO! Desolate. Drenched. Collapsing. Arms. Emerging. Soaring. Moist. Mouth. Breath. Sea. Dripping. Coiling. Nibbling. Wet. Bewildered. Liquid. Breathless. Sliding. Moist. Panic. Sobs. Thistles. STAY HERE WITH ME! Trembling. Desperation. Soaking. Laughter. Hungry. Soft. Succulent. I’ve drawn pure beauty. I pat her thigh with my foot. She looks my way and I show her the sketch. She throws me a sweet grin and goes back to being her pensive self.
=======

The walls around me fade. I feel like I’m swimming inside her. Something different is happening within me. She leans into me. Her velvety lips touch mine, and I get goose bumps all over. I feel as if silvery threads of rain are covering my entire body. I’m turning into the sea, becoming one with her, melting. We kiss for a long, long time . . .

“She loves you like hell even if you are a homo.” “I’m not homo, turkey. Labels are so constricting. I don’t want a target on my back. I’m just in love with Marlena.” Soli’s talking about my being lezzie, and I keep telling her I’m not gay; I’m just me.