pt. 3

We laid on my bed. We stripped the clothes off each other. I put a condom on and guided myself into her. Her breathing was slow and relaxed. My breath eventually matched hers. The feeling between us was one of quiet, not hurried, or loud, but not dispassionate either. It seemed like such a familiar feeling. Afterwards I threw away the condom and got some water from the kitchen. When I arrived back in the room she was ruffling through my books by my bedside.

"Will you read to me," she asked.
"Do you want some water," I replied.
She took a glass of water from my hand and looked over the novels once more.
"No one's read to me in such a long time."
"Are you sleepy?"
"Not really, Murakami is good, but you only have 'Norweigan Wood.' There's this short story in Blind Woman Sleeping Willow. The main characters abandon their busy lives in Tokoyo to have an extended affair in Greece. Everyday the man would read to the woman. That's what she wanted. When I was in college I used to have a boyfriend who would read to me. He was into bizarre stuff, he'd always be reading passages from Lautremont, or Artaud. Still his voice was somewhat soothing. There's something about being spoken to that I like. That's why I sat next to you tonight, I thought you'd have a nice voice."
She sighed softly and patted the bed next to her. I set my water glass down on the bed side and got into bed next to her. She was still warm from the sex. Her face was slightly flushed. A light blanket lay over her legs. I moved the blanket over my lower torso slightly embarrassed by my nakedness.
"Read to me," she asked.
"What do you want me to read?"
"I don't know. To tell you the truth I don't really like any of these books that you have here. Well, Norweigan Wood is good but I don't think it will be very enthralling to have read to me. If you tell me a good enough tale I'll make it worth your while. Sort of like the woman in the Arabian nights." She sat up a little straighter and poked me in the ribs.

"I have nothing to read," I said slowly. I was embarrassed by my voice. My lower jaw jutted out slightly causing an under bite. My cro magnon facial features created a lisp that I'd had my entire life. My parents, particularly my mother had wanted it fixed when I was younger but we'd never had the money to do so. Instead I was put through speech therapy. Endlessly I'd pronounce the 'th' sound, the 'sh' sound and 's.' Every time would be the same soft slight slur. I hated hearing my voice recorded and never sang. I sat there staring at the ceiling for a while trying to figure out some form of respectable escape.

"Well why don't you just make up a story," she said.
"Make one up?"
"Yeah, how about; 'Once about a time in Cleveland,' or maybe 'On the edges of a small rural town, there was a farm, and there lived a boy on that farm...' I've got you started already."
"Your imagination works much quicker than mine."
"I think its more about getting the ball rolling. Once you start the story will take you along wherever it wants to go."
"You think so?"
"Sure, and what do you have to lose? I've already seen the worst of you." She giggled and pulled up the sheets. She grabbed my cock giving it a squeeze. She laughed again then kissed my cheek.