This Cake is for the Party Read Online Free
cone on top of its head with his index finger. Circles it first one way and then the other. When his finger gets too sticky, he puts it in his mouth. Looking at me as he does this. I feel my nipples tighten into hard French knots under my T-shirt. He leans over and drapes his arm around my shoulder. His face is very close to my face. I can breathe him. He smells like toasted bread and Ivory soap.
I let my head fall back so he can kiss me. I notice differences: the softness of his lower lip, the way he cups the side of my face in his hand. That his face is smooth, even at this time of night. It is the first time in nine years that I have kissed anyone but Sanderson.
There, he says, and pulls away from me. Thatâs what I know.
My eyes have adjusted to the dark, but they take shortcuts, turn shadows into shapes. Itâs too dark to see anything clearly. The shapes adjust when I think about what Iâm looking at differently. When I stare at Flipâs shoulder, the darkness clusters in front of my eyes and I can turn it into a perfect sphere. It crawls with darkness and I think about what Flipâs shoulder should look like and then it morphs into a shoulder again. I remember an old drawing lesson, something Sanderson told me years ago. When youâre drawing an object, you need to stick to one viewpoint. Set the object down and sit so you can see it without moving your head very much. You always want to have your head in the same place whenever you look at the object. A small movement can make a surprisingly big difference once you start drawing the details.
You should go to bed now, I say slowly.
Is that really what you want me to do?
Yes.
Fine, he says, and he pulls me off the chair and I go with him to the couch and we make love there. We move quietly and quickly. He says my name as he inhales. It sounds like and, and, and. When weâre finished, we donât say anything. We lie on the couch together breathing honey. My arm is stuck in a crevice between the couch pillows. I feel something gritty rubbing against my elbow. Flip moves first. He slides his hands down along my hips and rests his head on my chest before he stands up. Then he goes upstairs and I can hear the water running for a minute.
I find my way into the kitchen and, without turning any lights on, I feel for a plastic bag in the drawer. I bring it outside onto the deck. The raccoons have pulled everything out and thrown it into piles. I crouch and scrape up the noodles with my hands. The wood looks stained even when the garbage is gone. Iâm still in my bare feet. I know I should be cold, but I canât feel it.
Watching
Atlas
I can hear it coming down Water Street, three blocks away. The siren yowls and moans and then dissolves into a stuttering Doppler. Itâs probably on the way to another quiet traumaâstroke, aneurysm, heart attack.
There have only been two memorable emergencies in the neighbourhood so far this summer. Last month there was a robbery at Samâs Milk Bread & Pop. Someone with a butterfly knife stabbed the cashier for Playerâs Lights and the acrylic box of pennies that went towards the spaying and neutering of stray cats. The Examiner said that the Peterborough Feral Cat Agency got their money back (four dollars and thirty-eight cents), but the cashier had to be hospitalized for the knife woundâa slit that ran deep under her clavicle, nearly puncturing her lung. Then, one week later, there was the woman who put enough Canadian Club into her bloodstream to mistake an iron guardrail for the horizon. She fell off her balcony and planted her skull in her own flower bed, crushing two vertebrae and a patch of pink and white impatiens. The woman was named Sylvia. Lise and I knew her. Well, we met her at a house party once. Sheâd been drunk that night too. Stuck in a string hammock in the backyard, laughing, fighting with her arms and legs, arching her back and straining to get out, like a
I let my head fall back so he can kiss me. I notice differences: the softness of his lower lip, the way he cups the side of my face in his hand. That his face is smooth, even at this time of night. It is the first time in nine years that I have kissed anyone but Sanderson.
There, he says, and pulls away from me. Thatâs what I know.
My eyes have adjusted to the dark, but they take shortcuts, turn shadows into shapes. Itâs too dark to see anything clearly. The shapes adjust when I think about what Iâm looking at differently. When I stare at Flipâs shoulder, the darkness clusters in front of my eyes and I can turn it into a perfect sphere. It crawls with darkness and I think about what Flipâs shoulder should look like and then it morphs into a shoulder again. I remember an old drawing lesson, something Sanderson told me years ago. When youâre drawing an object, you need to stick to one viewpoint. Set the object down and sit so you can see it without moving your head very much. You always want to have your head in the same place whenever you look at the object. A small movement can make a surprisingly big difference once you start drawing the details.
You should go to bed now, I say slowly.
Is that really what you want me to do?
Yes.
Fine, he says, and he pulls me off the chair and I go with him to the couch and we make love there. We move quietly and quickly. He says my name as he inhales. It sounds like and, and, and. When weâre finished, we donât say anything. We lie on the couch together breathing honey. My arm is stuck in a crevice between the couch pillows. I feel something gritty rubbing against my elbow. Flip moves first. He slides his hands down along my hips and rests his head on my chest before he stands up. Then he goes upstairs and I can hear the water running for a minute.
I find my way into the kitchen and, without turning any lights on, I feel for a plastic bag in the drawer. I bring it outside onto the deck. The raccoons have pulled everything out and thrown it into piles. I crouch and scrape up the noodles with my hands. The wood looks stained even when the garbage is gone. Iâm still in my bare feet. I know I should be cold, but I canât feel it.
Watching
Atlas
I can hear it coming down Water Street, three blocks away. The siren yowls and moans and then dissolves into a stuttering Doppler. Itâs probably on the way to another quiet traumaâstroke, aneurysm, heart attack.
There have only been two memorable emergencies in the neighbourhood so far this summer. Last month there was a robbery at Samâs Milk Bread & Pop. Someone with a butterfly knife stabbed the cashier for Playerâs Lights and the acrylic box of pennies that went towards the spaying and neutering of stray cats. The Examiner said that the Peterborough Feral Cat Agency got their money back (four dollars and thirty-eight cents), but the cashier had to be hospitalized for the knife woundâa slit that ran deep under her clavicle, nearly puncturing her lung. Then, one week later, there was the woman who put enough Canadian Club into her bloodstream to mistake an iron guardrail for the horizon. She fell off her balcony and planted her skull in her own flower bed, crushing two vertebrae and a patch of pink and white impatiens. The woman was named Sylvia. Lise and I knew her. Well, we met her at a house party once. Sheâd been drunk that night too. Stuck in a string hammock in the backyard, laughing, fighting with her arms and legs, arching her back and straining to get out, like a
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