Sharon Fishfeld

Days and Shoulders

 

He slept on a futon and gave me his bed. Goodnight to shadows through open doorways.

 

 

 

He asked if he could scratch my back.

 

 

 

On Wednesday he scratched.

 

 

 

His fingertips rubbed along my back, just right where it bends, and my stomach. I shuddered.

 

 

 

On Friday he leaned over me and the light above put him in shadow, so there he was: an outline, a silhouette. "You're cute," I said; I could feel his veins. "You're beautiful," he said; he didn't blink.
 

 

On Saturday. Oh, Saturday. Let me have it, will you, to myself. There might not be another one for a while. I know, it comes back around. It's just a day. Saturday, again, whether Friday claims so or not.
 

 

Sunday he put me on a plane and I thought how I loved it there, and did I love it where I was going? I should clarify. I fell asleep against my window and dreamed about his shoulders, instead of crashing planes. I dreamed; if the plane crashed, his shoulders would catch me, because they were wide and determined and I'd held them in my own hands, kissed them with my own secrets. So what's to fear when you have a parachute on?
 

 

Monday I called to hear him, and held the phone against my shoulder, hoping maybe he was doing the same.

 

 

 

But Tuesday he didn't call.

 

 

 

Wednesday.

 

 

 

Thursday.

 

 

 

Friday.

 

 

 

Saturday he didn't call.

 

 

 

Sunday.

 


Monday he wrote. Explained, apologized. He didn't know and I didn't know and no one knew what he'd done wrong. But just so I knew, he said, he'd never expected or even wanted me to change anything about me. It was an integral part of how I identified myself. Which was "so cool." No one can know what to expect, but surely we know what we want. And so when, again,
 

 

Tuesday he didn't call.

 

and

 

Wednesday

 

and

 

Thursday

 

and

 

Friday.

 

 

 

I knew it.

 

 

 

I'd already started dreaming of Saturday, hoping it wouldn't take me months, pleading it wouldn't take me years, holding on for a few more days, smiling that there must be an even better Saturday out there. Smiling for when I'd be so lucky.