JJ Strong Fiction Short Story

The Love of Make-Believe

By JJ Strong

I slept with the maid of honor at my friend’s wedding last Saturday and haven’t seen her since. The ceremony was up in Pasadena, under that bright yellow sun and blue sky they have out there. She was the maid of honor, I was the best man, and we were all dressed up, watching our friends do the whole “with this ring” thing.

All day long we drank and danced and posed on either side of the happy couple for pictures. She looked pretty and blonde in the sun, and I felt lonely watching her there next to stone fountains and at the steps of gazebos with the bride and all her maids. For most of the day I didn’t know what to say to her. Then the whole thing was over, and I needed a ride home. And she had a car.

So we sat, drunk in the car and not yet going anywhere, then both leaned in heavy and kissed and grabbed in the dark. She climbed over the stick shift and onto my lap. Her thighs flashed pale in front of me, and she wore a smooth black dress with nothing underneath so we slipped right together, wet bare sliding skin, no condom.

Later we drove to her place in Hollywood to let her dog out, though she told me over and over that we couldn’t stay all night because her ex-boyfriend Scott lived there and that he would be home soon.

I’d met Scott a few times before. He was a frantic and loud sort of man that always seemed coked-up, until he actually was coked-up, and then you could tell the difference because his voice would shake with a tinny hollowness. From what little I’d seen of them, they always seemed very much together and in love, and apparently had been for years. I don’t how many exactly, but enough to buy a one-bedroom condo together, anyway. Whatever they had between them though had recently fallen apart, and they were each now stuck with one half of that condo, she with the bedroom, and he the couch. I didn’t ask why neither had bothered to move out yet.

The place was narrow with dark red walls and sloping ceilings, and she made straight for the kitchen. In the dim yellow light she propped open the screen door to let Buster out. Buster was a giant grey mutt with a head like a pony’s and he galloped out into the sweet-smelling summer night.

“Ceremony was nice,” she said. “You think it’ll last?”

“Of course,” I told her, without really thinking about it.

She still wore the black dress and held a pair of black shoes in her hand. Her hair, once tied up in bows and flowers and colors, now fell free and blonde over her very pale shoulders. The dress was short, her legs bare and white.

She peeked out into the night, slapping her thigh and calling out “Buster” in a sing-song way.

Buster trotted in, his work completed, and the door clapped shut. She twirled on her tippy-toes to find me watching her, and in another moment her hand was in mine, and then we were in the bedroom.

“Real quick,” she said between breaths. I slipped the straps of her dress over her shoulders so the fabric fell and folded to her feet like a paper accordion. Goosebumps ran up and down her skin. Our arms and legs tangled up softly together, and again she said, “Real quick. Then we have to go.”

And so we were at it again, on the floor, never made it to the bed, and it was good. Very good. I had forgotten even that it could be that good, and it made me think of Kimberly, of course. Kimberly had been the best, way back in Jersey, and ever since then I didn’t think I could find anything quite like the stuff we’d had. Not out here, anyway, in this town. Some girls I had kissed, and I thought it was maybe the same, but then later I knew it wasn’t because it would get clunky and dry and strange when our clothes were off. And some girls I had kissed and didn’t even bother for anything else, because they opened their mouths too wide, or their teeth knocked against mine, or their breath tasted bad. And some girls I didn’t kiss at all. Sometimes I just knew, right away, that some girl wouldn’t be anything like it was with Kimberly, and so I wouldn’t even try. Sometimes I didn’t bother to look anywhere except backwards.

But with her, this maid of honor, like I say, it was real good. I can’t remember any of that timidity or awkwardness; it was like she and I had been there for years, and so that’s why it reminded me of Kimberly. We knew exactly where to go, how to fit together, and when to let it finally burst and fall away all at once.

That was when his name fell out of her.

“Scott,” she breathed. It plopped right out like a piece of gum she had forgotten was in her mouth.

I was sprawled out on my back, her head on my chest, my toes sticking straight up from the floor and turning cold out in the air. I really didn’t know what to say. I didn’t mind, honestly I didn’t, but she had tightened up so stiffly with the sound of his name out there, so I had to say something.

“Kimberly,” is what I said, quietly. “You kiss just like Kimberly.”

She curled right up into my arms. I squeezed her hard and felt her tap her hand on her chest, right over where her heart was I think. Then she touched my eyelids down with her fingertips, and said, “Close your eyes.”

I closed them and felt very tired, and so I told her that we probably shouldn’t fall asleep, on account of her ex-boyfriend coming home and all. But she shushed me, and said, “Stay.”

She breathed in with a quick shudder, and then told me, “Close your eyes and stay for a bit, and we’ll be whoever we want.”

* This piece was originally published in Raleigh Quarterly in July of 2009.

Author’s Bio: Originally from New Jersey, JJ Strong received a Master's degree in creative writing from the University of Southern California, where he won the university's Phi Kappa Phi Student Recognition Award. His work has also been named a finalist in USC's One-Act Play Festival and the New York Television Festival. Strong has recently completed a first novel and pays the bills by teaching writing at USC.