We're excited this week to feature a new story by Jackson Warfield. Jackson was raised in a small town in New Hampshire on a dead end road. He has traveled extensively and worked a variety of jobs, ranging from ditch digging to nude modeling for college art students. He writes for entertainment, his own and others. You can visit him at jacksonwarfield.com
Read on!
Read on!She Came Over in the Nights
In the nights, after work, she’d come over to my house and find me in my rocking chair on the back porch.“I’m hungry,” she’d say. “Don’t you have anything to eat?”
“I’m not much of an eater, dear.”
“I know, but I’m so hungry.”
“Well, go in there and root around. Maybe there’s something in the cupboards.”
She’d go into the kitchen and root around. I could hear her complaining through the windows and it depressed the hell out of me that she was there. After a while she’d either find something or give up and come out and collapse into the hammock on the opposite side of the porch.
“I’m so tired,” she’d say. “My feet hurt.”
I’d rock away and roll another cigarette. I had this tobacco called Amsterdam Shag and it wasn’t terrible.
“Did you drink all those beers in there on the counter?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Geez. I want to be on your drinking team.”
“I’m not into team sports.”
I’d finish my cigarette, get up, piss off the porch into the darkness, then get another beer and return to my chair. That was my routine. We’d sit there in silence until later on, when I was good and drunk, I’d say, “You wanna go lie down in bed?”
She’d make some moaning sound like I’d told her I’d run over her dog, then pull herself up from the hammock and follow me inside.
In bed, before turning off the light, I’d flip through a book of postcards by Salvador Dali. There were thirty of them, but only a few were worth looking at. There was this one with three swans on water, but their reflections were actually elephants. I really liked that one, and I’d stare at it for a minute before shutting off the light.
She didn’t care much for the postcards, and I didn’t care much for her.
I’d begin to draw circles around her breasts with my fingers until they went south into the jungle of her wiry hair.
The whole time, in my head, I’d be asking myself, “Why are you doing this?”
But I was pretty fancy with my fingers, and it was nice to hear her quiet groans grow and grow until she gasped and climaxed.
When I’d gotten all her clothes off I’d give her one peck on the lips and then kick out of my boxers.
“Should we get a condom?” I’d ask.
“No, I told you before, I’m not gonna have sex with you.”
“Then what are you doing here? Why the hell do you come over here every night and bitch and complain and then lie down in bed with me? What’s your fucking problem?”
“I like to spend time with you.”
“That’s a lie. Nobody likes to spend time with me.”
“I do.”
“Why? You like to watch me drink? Watch me smoke? What the hell?”
“I just enjoy spending time with you. You’re relaxing to be around, until you get like this.”
I’d go into the kitchen and grab my handle of bourbon and go back out onto the porch. I’d take a swig and rock in my chair and light another cigarette. I’d count each time I rocked back and forth, and when I got to one hundred I’d take a swig and start over.
Much later in the night I’d get up and walk very slowly through the dark house. I’d lay down in bed with her and put my arms around her and hold onto her like she was the only girl I’d ever loved.
In the early morning she’d get up and put on her clothes. Before leaving she’d lean down close to my face and whisper.
“Goodbye, I’ll see you tonight.”
