Read Online The Girl She Used to Be by David Cristofano - Free Book Online
Authors: David Cristofano
Tags: FIC000000
Ads: Link
around searching for my nipple, as though my boob was actually his sixth martini. I nudged his hand out
of the way and hugged him, mostly to give him an opportunity to start again.
He backed off and made a little progress by kissing my neck lightly, running his fingers through my hair. Then he whispered
my name—or what my name was at the time. “
Shelly
…”
I let him do it a few times, hoping it might work for me, but having paired my bogus name with his traversing my chest, along
with the dreaded effects of the alcohol, I said this: “Call me…
Melody
.”
Somehow, this made me naughty.
Nameless Guy pulled back, smiled at me, and moaned softly. Then, suddenly returning to his impassioned search for one of my
nipples, he muttered, “Yeah, babe… call me… Steeeeve.”
Now I still consider him nameless because of the
way
he said
Steve
, like it was this highly forbidden thing. And the truth is, what bothered me most wasn’t that he was creepy, asking me to
whisper some different name, but that he somehow found the name
Steve
to be lurid. It was throwing me off. I kept thinking, “Steve?” I mean, who was he fantasizing he was? Steve Carell? Steve
Austin?
Steve
Buscemi? Each possibility was worse than the last.
My interest was quickly retreating and, though sobering, I had just enough alcohol in me to say something totally moronic.
“No, I want you to call me Melody because it’s my real name.”
He smiled and moaned again and said, “Yeah, baby, I’ll call you Melody if you want.”
I pushed him off but his hand remained superglued to my chest. You’d think he was searching for a wire or a wad of twenties.
“My name is Melody.”
He shook his head. “You told me your name was Shelly.” He laughed a little. “C’mon, no one names their kid Melody.”
I took a deep breath and straightened out my clothes. “My parents did.”
His tone changed as the mood of romance decidedly vanished. “Get real.”
Then I walked up to him, grabbed his chest in an effort to twist
his
nipple, but it turns out those things are actually pretty hard to find. I poked him a couple times instead.
“I
am
real,” I said. “My name is Melody, as in Melody Grace McCartney, you jerk.”
I grabbed my purse and bolted for the door and just as I was about to slam it behind me I heard Nameless Guy say, “Oh, man.
…You were the little girl from the Bovaro murder trial.”
I froze. Even in my alcoholic haze I knew what I’d done.
Nameless Guy fumbled around for a minute, then came lunging at the door with a disposable camera. “Can I take one picture,
please? Just for me, to show the guys at work?”
I ran from Nameless Guy’s apartment—and, in fact, ran for two days straight, flanked by two federal marshals and a pile of
paperwork and promises for a better life. And within a month of my drunken flirtation, Farmington, New Mexico, became my new
home.
But I am here now, looking at how my body is fading in the now steamy mirror in my crappy motel room in Cape Charles, Virginia,
wanting so desperately to be loved and touched, to find that man to take my hands, draw me to him, close his eyes, press his
lips to mine, and lose himself—and pull me with him—in that sensual oblivion. I want to be unconditionally loved for who I
am and to feel him find his way inside me because I am open to him, and I want to feel us push and pull and push and pull
and get lost in each other in a way that, through all of my twenty-six years of living, I have yet to experience.
So, yes, I want to be loved for who I am.
And I wonder if I will ever know who I am—or what it means just to
be myself
.
And I wonder if I can ever surrender myself when I am not sure who I am surrendering.
I take a long shower, not because I need the time or enjoy the sensation, but because the droplets are coming down in decreasing
speed, like whatever is causing the clog in the showerhead is the water itself. I dry
of the way and hugged him, mostly to give him an opportunity to start again.
He backed off and made a little progress by kissing my neck lightly, running his fingers through my hair. Then he whispered
my name—or what my name was at the time. “
Shelly
…”
I let him do it a few times, hoping it might work for me, but having paired my bogus name with his traversing my chest, along
with the dreaded effects of the alcohol, I said this: “Call me…
Melody
.”
Somehow, this made me naughty.
Nameless Guy pulled back, smiled at me, and moaned softly. Then, suddenly returning to his impassioned search for one of my
nipples, he muttered, “Yeah, babe… call me… Steeeeve.”
Now I still consider him nameless because of the
way
he said
Steve
, like it was this highly forbidden thing. And the truth is, what bothered me most wasn’t that he was creepy, asking me to
whisper some different name, but that he somehow found the name
Steve
to be lurid. It was throwing me off. I kept thinking, “Steve?” I mean, who was he fantasizing he was? Steve Carell? Steve
Austin?
Steve
Buscemi? Each possibility was worse than the last.
My interest was quickly retreating and, though sobering, I had just enough alcohol in me to say something totally moronic.
“No, I want you to call me Melody because it’s my real name.”
He smiled and moaned again and said, “Yeah, baby, I’ll call you Melody if you want.”
I pushed him off but his hand remained superglued to my chest. You’d think he was searching for a wire or a wad of twenties.
“My name is Melody.”
He shook his head. “You told me your name was Shelly.” He laughed a little. “C’mon, no one names their kid Melody.”
I took a deep breath and straightened out my clothes. “My parents did.”
His tone changed as the mood of romance decidedly vanished. “Get real.”
Then I walked up to him, grabbed his chest in an effort to twist
his
nipple, but it turns out those things are actually pretty hard to find. I poked him a couple times instead.
“I
am
real,” I said. “My name is Melody, as in Melody Grace McCartney, you jerk.”
I grabbed my purse and bolted for the door and just as I was about to slam it behind me I heard Nameless Guy say, “Oh, man.
…You were the little girl from the Bovaro murder trial.”
I froze. Even in my alcoholic haze I knew what I’d done.
Nameless Guy fumbled around for a minute, then came lunging at the door with a disposable camera. “Can I take one picture,
please? Just for me, to show the guys at work?”
I ran from Nameless Guy’s apartment—and, in fact, ran for two days straight, flanked by two federal marshals and a pile of
paperwork and promises for a better life. And within a month of my drunken flirtation, Farmington, New Mexico, became my new
home.
But I am here now, looking at how my body is fading in the now steamy mirror in my crappy motel room in Cape Charles, Virginia,
wanting so desperately to be loved and touched, to find that man to take my hands, draw me to him, close his eyes, press his
lips to mine, and lose himself—and pull me with him—in that sensual oblivion. I want to be unconditionally loved for who I
am and to feel him find his way inside me because I am open to him, and I want to feel us push and pull and push and pull
and get lost in each other in a way that, through all of my twenty-six years of living, I have yet to experience.
So, yes, I want to be loved for who I am.
And I wonder if I will ever know who I am—or what it means just to
be myself
.
And I wonder if I can ever surrender myself when I am not sure who I am surrendering.
I take a long shower, not because I need the time or enjoy the sensation, but because the droplets are coming down in decreasing
speed, like whatever is causing the clog in the showerhead is the water itself. I dry
Similar Books
