Dating : Leather

A melancholy short

She hadn’t meant to find it; it seemed to jump from the shelf into her hands. She looked at it, disbelieving, the faded brown leather, well worn in the creases, but the lacing still strong and well knotted. She stared hard at the dark stain that splotched across edge of the thumb, and the memories flowed unbidden, but unstoppable.

She remembered when they’d met. She had laughed at his come-on in the bar, down the street from the stadium where he’d been playing at third, two hours before.

He’d persisted to the point of obnoxiousness and she’d thrown a drink in his face. He’d smiled dangerously, wiping the run-off from her ‘Sex On The Beach.’ She’d stared, liking that smile.

He’d thrown a couple of bills on the table and walked away, only turning at the door to nudge his head out the opening while looking back at her. He left.

She remembered sliding off her stool and pushing the door open, following him to his car, to apologize. He’d leaned against his car, waiting, but there was no triumph on his face.

Somehow, he’d said “I’m sorry,” first. “We won. I wanted to celebrate.”

She recalled in the blur of after, how the leather seat had felt against her bare cunt, how his belt had strapped her hands to the door, how she’d bucked against his cock.

She remembered, looking down at the object in her hands, the first time he’d put it on his hand and let it glide over her nakedness, lying in the sweet moist grass. The lights blazing down on them for anyone to have seen if they’d been there in any of the myriad seats.

She looked again at how the stain had soaked into the supple brown material…remembered how that orgasm had seemed to pour out of her onto it. He’d kept rubbing it against her spasming slit and whispering in her ear how he loved her. She’d held it against her breasts when she’d straddled him, riding, writhing, never losing his gaze as she called his name over and over.

She’d run out the door barely dressed, holding it high as she breathlessly reached him, half into his Jeep. “You forgot…”

“Naw. Leaving it here.”

“Why? It’s your favorite glove.”

He’d pointed at the stain, then rubbed his thumb along it, and she’d shivered, feeling a phantom clone of its wide calloused surface grazing along her pulpy sex. Staring as he explained.

“It is. But not because I need it against the Yankees. It’s my favorite because this here…is you.” He’d shaken his head in wonder. “I’m not risking you getting smeared into the grass or covered with dirt until it’s really set. No way.”

She’d leapt into his arms then, legs wrapping and nearly fucked him again, right there in the driveway. Their kiss had lingered until his tires squealed when he finally took off.

She bent her head, remembering — clutching it to her chest much as she had then — the keening wail that had issued from her throat upon hearing how another small plane with another famous person had fallen from the sky.