The Story of You

 

By Justine Wilson


You were lean and dark-haired in your open-air Jeep. You made your left turn and I followed, all the way to the cafe on
South Beverly Drive. I took a corner table, drank a mocha latte, watched you flirt with the redhead. Guys came up, asked for a seat and a chance. I licked foam off my lips. I only wanted you.

Weeks passed, and I learned you so well. You approached me in the club, said, How come we dont know each other? We squeezed onto the dance floor. I put my mouth to the warm salty hollow between neck and shoulder, moved my tongue along your skin until I found your pulse.

That was my first taste of you.

You never learned me at all. Shes a sweet girl, I heard you say on the phone. She would never do anything like that. That was your version, which begins We met at a club, and ends, Im in love with
Lucinda. Im sorry. I hope well be friends.

But it began at the corner of Wilshire and
Beverly Glen, your wild swing into a reckless left.

The heft of the gun in my purse. The way to your house through this maze of sun-slammed streets.

I am the one telling the story, my love.

I will be your ending.



Copyright 2004 Justine Wilson

Justine lives in Los Angeles with her husband and six-month-old twin sons. Her urban fantasy novel, BLOODANGEL, will be published by Roc/NAL/Penguin in fall '05. This is her website.



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