Sarah Estime is a student en route to a communications degree at St. John’s University. She has been published by Canadian literary magazine What If?, the African American Review, online literary magazine Xenith.net, literary/photography magazine Burnermag, Words Apart Magazine, and Over the Counter Culture Magazine. She also write reviews for Blogcritics and Examiner.com. You can find more information about Sarah Estime at facebook.com/sarahestime.
Non the Ready by Sarah Estime
Heavy perspiration splattered through the window’s screen and I rushed to shield the crowded window sill. A waft of air obtruded beautifully onto the cotton shades and onto my damp hair. I jerked back as a wounded up roll thundered dangerously close to the roof. We lived on the second story.
“Hey, do you want general tso, too?”
“Please.” I answered.
“Ew.” he said back, turning into the bathroom.
He made it crucial to be solitaire as a means to properly make an order. He was a guy. I turned the television on and cushioned a layer of bedspreads and pillows. Fever Pitch was in the DVD player but I exchanged it for About Schmidt. I heard urination surround-sound.
“No toilet paper.” he hollered.
I paused the movie and kicked the bathroom door ajar. He twitched, and then smiled as his common sense was directed to the stocked cabinet below the sink. I returned to the movie and the mellow, gray bedroom protected from the violent showers. Offended clouds vibrated in an eager muffle as it traversed the sun’s rays. The winded trees, the soggy atmosphere, and the stormy devastation were just the type of calamity to examine the relative and inner peace since yellow brightness couldn’t be compared to one when effusive. I exhibited the chaos mutely save for the bellows. It was all so gloomy yet bearable and so gentle. My body, infected by the central air, aired off under a vent over our bed.
He leaped onto the bed.
“Shame on you for making them undergo this.”
“You gonna go get it?” he asked.
“No.” I said.
“With all your rain dance talk, one would think you’d be willing to pick it up but I guess that one just doesn’t understand.”
“That one doesn’t happen to be you, does it?” I asked, “You— the one. Ire Feinstein, the one.”
“You’re genius.” he said as I laughed.
He snuggled into a pillow resting under my arm and clutched another pillow that was out of my reach close to his chest.
“Oh, don’t get comfortable,” I whined, “I was just going to request a massage.”
I turned over, nervously awaiting his fingers. A lone slide, a simple graze was enough to capture me. They were exhilarating by the touch. He anticipated me all the more with his time.
“What movie is this?” he asked, beginning with his elbow.
“About Schmidt.” I mumbled out of my cheek.
“What’s it about?”
“Widowing and shit.”
He induced an eternal labyrinth of loveliness I knew my way around so well. But it didn’t matter how well I knew the nostalgia. I no longer utilized control. I imagined his hands as light as stars and his arms as the texture of Aloysius Snuffleupagus. I sustained such plushness that I was safe getting myself lost in.