Johnny America


Sewn Up


Ja­cob was dream­ing of his father’s pump­kin patch when the scis­sors’ snip woke him.

“What’re you do­ing, Lor­raine?” She was ob­vi­ous­ly feign­ing slumber.

“Doll,” he said with­out im­pli­ca­tion, “I saw you mov­ing. What’you hid­ing un­der that pil­low?” His wal­let, he guessed — for the months they’d been dat­ing he’d re­fused to let her see his old col­lege I.D., which he car­ried to sneak dis­counts at the cine­plex. Maybe the padded hand­cuffs, he con­sid­ered. Her look was de­cid­ed­ly amorous.

She smiled, reached un­der the cov­ers, and pro­duced a small vel­veteen purse which she placed in Jacob’s up­turned hands.

“What’s in the case?” he asked, “What’ve you been hid­ing?” She smiled wide, her crooked in­cisor catch­ing the morn­ing light.

Ja­cob un­zipped the case and pulled out a nee­dle with a length of thread still at­tached, dull and drip­ping blood. “What in the world have you been up to?” he pressed. Again, Lor­raine grinned.

She start­ed rock­ing side to side, squeal­ing with de­light, and as she did Ja­cob felt a thou­sand tiny ropes tug­ging at his hip. He pushed off the blan­ket and looked down at the needle­work ty­ing them to­geth­er. He won­dered how he’d slept though it. A rivulet of blood formed in the val­ley where flesh met flesh. He sighed and said, “nice work with the thread, very even­ly spaced,” be­fore giv­ing a nib­ble to her shoulder.

I wish she were pret­ti­er if I have to be in love, he thought to him­self, then drift­ed back to sleep.

Filed under Fiction on December 23rd, 2005

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