COUCH #17 I've never seen her before, the chick asleep on my couch. Shouldn't surprise me

Master Index Current Directory Index Go to SkepticTank Go to Human Rights activist Keith Henson Go to Scientology cult

Skeptic Tank!

COUCH #17 I've never seen her before, the chick asleep on my couch. Shouldn't surprise me - happens all the time - but this one is incredible. She's six feet if she's an inch and perfect: soft brown hair, full lips, creamy skin, full breasts with erect nipples, softly rounded hips, a navel and a pale blue sheet. Her feet are curled, wrapped in the sheet. Her eyes open slowly - green, with long, curled lashes - and she smiles as a stretch ripples down her. "You're very territorial," she says. "Has anybody ever told you that?" The backs of my knees soften at the sound of her voice, a resonant frequency or something. I smile, vacantly. "I've never done anything like this before," I lie. I feel a chill, even though the heater's on. I stand there in my boxers, trying not to stare. She stands and the sheet falls to the couch. She scoops it up and throws it over her right shoulder, moves close to me. "Kiss," she says. I obey. "I fix breakfast is how it works, and we take it from there." She points her chin toward the bedroom and accompanying bath. "I'll be right out," she says, brushing past me. A hand lingers on my chest, brushing my hairs. Running water. What do they do in there? I try to remember her name, or any detail of the last twenty four hours. The living room isn't any help - if she had clothes, or a purse, when she got here, they must be in the bedroom. The couch is still warm; I imagine heat escaping from the soft indentations she's left behind. The place is clean, orderly, and, miraculously, doesn't reek of smoke and beer farts. Almonds, it smells like. A clean ashtray holds a turquoise book of matches. This isn't my apartment. She reappears, wearing my favorite shirt and a rubberband in her hair. Schoolgirlish, sort of. I follow her into a kitchen, modern, with a breakfast nook. I sit at the table, where a fresh-lit cigarette - Merit, my brand - is burning in a seashell ashtray. She reaches for a cannister of coffee and my shirt rides up over her hips, exposing her bare bottom. She wiggles it playfully. Filter, water and coffee smells as she extracts pots and pans from under the counter. Bacon. "Over easy?" I nod, unsure, and she cracks three brown eggs into a skillet. Whole wheat toast, juice - it all hits the table at the same time. She places a fork, knife and napkin to the left of my plate, then sits on my knee, kisses me. My hands rest on her hips, lightly smoothing the soft fabric over her flesh and she turns closer to me, hands interwoven behind my neck. Her eyes are huge. With a sigh, she slips her hands down my shoulders and stands. She opens the refrigerator door and, blowing me a kiss, climbs inside. The door clicks closed behind her and I stare for a while, wondering. What do they do in there? I eat slowly, helping myself to a second cup of coffee and rinsing my plate and silverware. Another cigarette appears in the clean ashtray, already lit. I smoke it, resting my feet against the fridge. My favorite shirt. I'll probably never see it again. Copyright (c) 1988 by Burk Murray * * Where applicable, address replies to PROMETHEUS REEBOK * *


E-Mail Fredric L. Rice / The Skeptic Tank