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Matt Smith

September 2, 2015

Early to Rise


Buzzing phone. I swat to the left. She sleeps to my right. The chill bites at my exposed shoulders and toes. I groan. The warmth of my breath rolls across her neck and she turns over releasing my arm, half-circulated. Tingly reanimation. Hooded eyes smile briefly as her stubbly thighs wrap around mine. Bodies mush together. Mornings are a rush.
Snooze button. It’s almost over. I’ve admitted worse with more grace. She sighs. I put my right arm around her. My hand on her belly squeezes softly for comfort. I hold her there while we sleep. My eyes close after a few seconds.
Second alarm. Annoyed, just as planned. “Don’t get up,” she whispers as though it needed whispering. Chapped lips meet. Dead skin flakes poke at one another. Little pecks. Armpit sweat and the acrid odor of bodies lingers between us. I bury my nose in her hair. It smells like jasmine. Her powerful thighs absorb mine. Fingers interlock. She has no intention of moving. She greets the morning with the same stubborn tardiness.
Didn’t realize I fell asleep. I turn off both alarms. Eyelids are dry, there’s crust in the corners. I plant a kiss behind the ear. “Forty, maybe fifty minutes,” I tell myself. Anxious kisses up and down her oily neck. Had I held her too tightly? She turns over, ass pressed into my pelvis, and slings my arm around her, claiming it for herself. She giggles and whispers, “You don’t have time.”
“When can I see you again?” I ask. “Whenever.” She smiles. Fourth time this week. Feels natural. How much is too much? I won’t ask.
Dank breath, burnt aroma— marijuana, last night. Thick saliva makes for pursed lips. She kisses the back of my hand, holding it to her lips. Warm when she exhales. “Stay here,” she suggests jovially. I sigh next to her ear. Grinding against her, I draw heavy breaths between sentences, “There’s a dinner… Friday night… For my cousin…” Rolling over to face me, she smiles, “Sure.”
“How did you sleep?” I ask. “Alright. Not bad,” she says in a seesaw tone. “You hold me so close,” she laughs. I mimic nervously.
“I like you,” she says sweetly. It’s a dizzying high. “Oh yeah,” I reply, leaning over her. I try to smirk but end up blushing. Nails claw at my back. Short glances at her lazy breasts. “When do you start?” she asks, running her hand over my stubble. Her fingertips retain a salty, vinegar musk from last night’s hummus, not unpleasant though it’s distracting. “I have to be there by 8:45.” She moans. I’ve yet to shower and eat, and I’m defiantly erect. All she has on are a pair of faded, fluorescent yellow panties. I push against her with a cotton barrier. She pecks at my cheek then bites. “Ouch!” I recoil at the pinch. Again, she giggles.
“You feel so good,” she coos. Words escape me. Looking down at her, my teeth sink into my lower lip. Her neck cranes up, feet point at the ceiling, and she calls my name twice in exasperation. She gets that choked-up look as I hit spots previously unrevealed. I would drag this out forever.
The cat leaps on to the bed to bathe himself. Head buried in crotch, he goes to town. His bumpy tongue sounds like greasy sandpaper rubbing against carpet. She’s pretending he’s not there. I can’t help but snicker.
Behind her, one hand on her waist, the other her neck. Her hands are up against the wall. Past the point of no return. Her back is wet and spots drip on the sheets. I’m on my knees, hunched over, still hard, gasping urgently.
On her side, she glides a finger up my forearm. A drowsy smile. “I like this view,” she says. Her hair spreads out across the pillow like midnight waves. White teeth and brown eyes. I’m beaming with post-coitus confidence but panting too much to be coy. She pulls me in. Foreheads touch. “That was fun.” She bites her lip. I can’t avoid the wet patch. The rest of the world comes into focus— a locomotive roars in the distance, the patter of morning showers, the back and forth wail of a police siren. “I’m gonna hop in the shower,” I say. “Mind if I stay here?” she asks. “Not at all,” I respond.
Radiating heat, towel around my waist, I return to the bedroom. She opens her eyes and watches me dress. I check my phone. Four minutes. My legs and arms are still damp as I pull up my jeans and throw on a sweater. There’s something so final about dressing. “C’mere,” she whispers. I lean over her. “Keep sleeping if you want.” “You sure?” she asks. “Of course. There’s a spare key on the rack next to the door. Just leave it in the mailbox.”
“How about you call in sick and we get breakfast?” she jokes. The thought is too sweet to entertain, but I do. I pepper her face with kisses. “Two days,” I chuckle. “Too long,” she complains.
“I’ve gotta go.” Biting my top lip, she sucks on it, then runs her tongue along my gums. “For real!” I laugh. “Alright!” She rolls me over and with both legs kicks me out of bed. “Have a good day,” she says. Her face is half hidden under the covers but I can tell she’s smiling.




Matt Smith was born in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Since then he has spent some years in Phoenix, Arizona and Ulsan, South Korea. He currently resides in Portland, Oregon. He works for the Portland Children’s Museum. Previously, he taught ESL for both public and private institutions.




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