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This story may contain sensitive material or discuss topics that some readers may find distressing. Reader discretion is advised. The views and opinions expressed in this story are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Vocal.
Photo by Marine Sintes on Unsplash
Some smells are
etched in the mind
like
sweat mingled
with IHOP
pancake mix,
or the ick
after the kiss
when
I spat out some corn
from his teeth.
He said it was his
first
time
too.
I was sixteen then.
He was
twenty-two.
My window latch
wouldn’t stay shut.
I
didn’t say
yes.
But like a greedy,
hungry man at an
all-you-can-eat buffet,
he took handfuls,
and I
lay flat,
like a table should,
and closed my eyes
and gripped my sheets because
even a table, if proper,
needs cloth—
otherwise it gets stained,
sold for cheap.
I cried.
He said sorry
until the next week.
And after he loved me again,
I felt sick.
I say
I forgive him.
It’s been sixteen years.
I wonder where he’s at
and if he
hates
tablecloths
still.
Comments (1)
This is heartbreaking! I’m really sorry that happened to you. Sixteen and twenty-two is not equal ground. The way you write it — “I didn’t say yes” says everything. The fact that you can write this now—boldly, without hiding —tells me you’re not the table anymore. You’re the one telling the story. And that matters. ❤️