Talking With Hannah About Sex and Cake

Talking With Hannah About Sex and Cake

A Story by C. Mijares Devane
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Micro-fiction of a moment between a young woman and her broken confidante

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and then she reveals her thoughts on sex. i mean, i knew she was probably just filling space, and that she spent most of her waking hours in her own head, occasionally leaking far too many and far too challenging words, so there was about a billion percent chance she was just playing with words to entertain herself. but, i cared about her. and she cared about me.


tell me one more time, hannah.


when i wandered into her life, as i wandered from my own, she was trying to figure out if this was an encounter that should last beyond the whiskey. the guess sealed the deal.


guess my name, cowboy, she dared.


now i am a cowboy like the moon is three peanuts and a rusty violin, but guessing was my forte. intuition is my superpower. and hells bells, she was far too young to be throwing around nicknames to a man twice her age. but fearless and floating aren’t unusual companions, so we got along well.


“savannah” was my guess. who the hell guesses “savannah?” in madrid? to an afghan educated in london (she told me all that much, much later, but it was clear she wasn’t from south carolina)? me. the super empath.


tyrone, she said (again, a nickname. i don’t know if she has ever used my actual name), you get to keep talking to me.


winner winner chicken dinner.


top-shelf this time, tyrone.


and the friendship was baptized in glenfiddich.


today, though, she was drinking grapefruit juice, and opining on sex. honestly, i don’t think she’s ever had sex, though she is convinced she is a “very physical person.”


“i like when it is unexpected…” and she lost me from there.


she talked, squeezed my palm to make a point, talked again, cupped my chin to pull it back to her, talked and then sipped… i heard each word, and bathed in them. conversations with her were more an experience than a linear exchange of thoughts. mostly, though, our talks were a time to touch, and for her to let me know everything was okay.


“right?” she asked.


and that was the best thing about hannah.


so i answered.


“well, i like knowing it’s going to happen, but then having to wait and wait and wait and wait, and then when it shows up, like when mid-laugh she’ll stand up and reach back for me, and lead me to mi cama, and it’s there, but i want to feel all of it at once without starting it, like i want to dream without sleeping, or, wait… i want it to be there for me, like cake on a plate, and i want to smell it, and push against it to see it swell and push back, to get so close that i can taste it even though it never is in my mouth, and i want to stay in that moment until the cake jumps from the plate and smothers my face, burying me in it, drowning in chocolate, frosting shoved up my nostrils until my saliva is brown and each breath a brownie, my eyelids pasted shut with cream, and all i can do is smear the wetness back and forth and back and forth until i realize that the cake is still on the plate, and i can wait some more… yeah, that is what i like.”


you know, skippy. you’re just a little touched in the head.


and yet, h, here you sit.


yes. with you.


and that was my job, to share where maybe she should go. where the land mines were fewer. where the partners were safer. where the talks were gentler. and that was her job, to consider my thoughts. or not. she knew her counselor, and the questionable guidance rolled out during our daytime drinking. but, she also knew i was here, and would be here tomorrow. and we are okay with this.


barkeep, let’s turn this juice into a greyhound.


yeah, h. go get ’em, girl.


i’ll just sit here and wait for the cake to jump.

 


Copyright © 2016, C. Mijares Devane. All Rights Reserved.

© 2016 C. Mijares Devane


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Added on September 11, 2016
Last Updated on September 11, 2016