Jen’s lips are sticky from glittery gloss when we kiss. She smells like daisies.
I walk to my computer, set up the audio app to record the moment. On my floor futon, she is making out with Johnny. I press record, take my clothes off, and join them. I feel comfortable with her. I like men, but sometimes I like Jen.
Years later, she will console me when my mother dies and will attend my wedding. One day, she will be dropped off unconscious by someone unknown at the emergency room. They will leave her alone. As alone, I will learn, as she has felt her whole life.
In the picture I will place on her memorial table, she raises her arms straight up as if she won. A dark beer bottle in one hand, her tongue stretched out in a devious smile, she is happy. I am not. I will always remember that I should have helped her when she asked.
My lips are still sticky when we wake up in my bed. We chat about the night we had with Johnny. I light a cigarette as she leaps out of bed to my computer and presses play so we can listen to the recording. Sounds of muffled chatting and moaning become clear when she turns the volume up. We laugh and laugh and laugh.
Ofrit Peres is a film producer, writer, and mom based in Ojai, California, and a partner at Chaotik Media. Her work has been published in Haoketz (in Hebrew).
Image Credit: Flickr Creative Commons/pontla
