Fibonacci’s Window
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Six eighty seven. Six eighty eight. Six eighty –
“Hi, Jonas.”
– nine. Fuck it. I hate when she does that. I mean, I like her, but goddamn it.
“Hi Shelley.” Five forty-five. I can see the clock behind, ten, maybe ten and half inches across the face. Paper. Bread. 1538 Market. 1.79 a loaf.
“Your usual?” I nod. She’s back there. 64, 65 inches up. 30 inch waist. Weird dimensions. Big tits. Thirty-five, forty cubic inches each in those babies. Goddamn it, they’re mighty fine. Figure sucking on a couple of them.
Evening Standard. 75 cents. A dollar down, E58934738, change. 25 cents. 25%. .25 in the dollar.
Fuck it. Fuck you. Like I can help it.
Shelley smiles. She’s got poodley hair, three, three and a half circles every two inches. Sort of a melting woman. Soft. Hundred fifty pounds maybe. Hard to tell in that cardigan. $16.75 at Harteman’s this weekend only. I saw the flier.
She puts coffee in my hand. She’s nice that way. Coffee. 1.25 dollar twenty-five in my pocket –
She stops my hand. I like it when she does that. Touches me.
“It’s OK, Jonas,” she says. Soft. Kinda husky. Bursa Escort
I can’t really smile. Fuck knows I want to, but there’s these pigeons, six, seven overhead, wheeling, and then it’s five, then seven, then six, because the top of the newsstand keeps cutting them off. I never know how many are coming back. Five. Seven. Eight.
“Jonas.”
Four. What the fuck? But I really like her.
“Shelley.” I kinda-smile. I’m tryin’, goddamn it. She more-smiles back. Like, brighter. It’s good.
Eight. Thank fuck. Five. Seven. She’s looking at me.
“You’re late today.”
Five forty-seven. Yeah. Bread closes at six. Thirteen minutes. 87 bus was out. 35, then the 23, ten, fifteen stops. Way too many.
I look up at her. Seven. She’s waiting.
“Yeah,” I mumble. “Bus was out.”
“I get off at six.”
Six. Five. No, six. Clock. Not pigeons. Whathefuck?
“Oh. Yeah? You, uh, … wanna walk home?” She’s nice. Big-titted. Soft. Cute. I like her.
“Yeah. That’d be nice.”
Smiles. Fuck, where’d the pigeons go? I go look. Twelve and a half minutes. She hands in her Çanakkale Escort apron. We walk.
I can’t talk. Forty-seven. Forty-eight. She’s good about it. Like, she tries once or twice, but she stops. Not mad-stops, like “fuck you I was tryin’ to talk to you,” but sort of … nice-stops. Four hundred twenty-two and right. That’s the lobby. We stop. My place. Fuckin’ wind-up toy. I don’t know her place. Could be a lot of steps. Maybe a bus. 123 or the 17, this time of night; number 5 to the Gardens, maybe. I don’t know where to take her.
“Sorry.” I’m fucking up. But she kinda … I dunno. I just don’t care about the fucking pigeons, you know? She sort of smiles.
“You want me to come up?” She asks it maybe-yes. I nod. It’s yes. Fucking … yeah. Yeah, you come up.
Four flights. I hate elevators. The stairs all have eleven but the last has twelve. She’s tired. Nice, though. No complaints. I like that about her. I mean, I’m not … you know. And she doesn’t give me a bunch of shit. She’s panting – twenty-five, twenty-six breaths a minute, getting’ up that last set. I feel bad. I take her hand, ’cause Çankırı Escort she’s draggin’ herself up the rail. She smiles. Fuckin’ ace. She’s catchin’ her breath. I’m touchin’ her hand. It’s kinda … hot.
Three doors. My place. The door’s hardly shut and we’re up against it. Kissing. Tasting. Shelley. My hands slide up under her cardigan, $16.75, Harteman’s, this weekend only, and then I feel her stiff nips poking into my palms and oh, like I fucking care. Goddamn, it’s good. Warm. Soft. She’s got to be more like 165 but fuck it’s good.
It goes fast. Frantic hungry sucking at tongues; her big tits cramming against my mouth; then she’s zipping at me, fuck, fuck, it’s six-oh-eight, I fucking swear, I can see the clock on the oven, and she’s sliding down me. Don’t stop, thirty-seven years I swear no one has ever yes 5.26 inches it ain’t fuckin’ much but unh! Her lips close and she’s smiling and I crack my head on the door as my body jerks and my spine twitches and fuck.
I worry for like a half a second about lasting. Then she smiles up at me. It’s fucking perfect. You don’t know how much I love this woman.
It comes. Oh, fuck, it comes.
We slide down. Fuck if I know where I am. I like her, though. I want to tell her but I’d just fuck it up. Maybe she knows. She curls up against me and I touch her. Warm. Close. It’s fucking amazing.
It’s hours before I know what time it is.
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