We sat against the window of the hardware store, her curled up under my arm, sobbing into my side. The night's breeze, cold against our thinly protected skin, only forced us to squeeze closer together to remain warm. She had just finished laying out the grisly, uncomfortable details of her now entirely extinguished relationship. He'd been an awful partner, a selfish lover and extremely demeaning to her in private, and my offering her a warm, comforting arm caused her to burst into tears.
I took a long draw from my cigarette, buying myself a moment to think about what I'd just learned, when she took a ragged breath and spoke for the first time in long, tense minutes.
"Am I worthless, Roger?" A sob marked the sad dot to the self-loathing question mark appended to that inquiry. I froze, considering what I'd say next, and she sensed my hesitation and took it to be the unspoken answer to her all-too-spoken question. The sobbing began, renewed.
"You are NOT WORTHLESS!" I roared, a little too aggressively. "How dare you believe what that asshole said to you!" A sharp, smoky inhale hinted at the rage underneath my concern. Her sobbing stopped with a startled squeal. I moved quickly, catching her delicate chin with my rough, dirty fingers. I gently turned her face up to mine, meeting her gaze.
She was always very pretty. Her medium length hair always framed her round-ish face, usually decorated with sparkling green eyes and a dopey but cute smile. Her figure is what I'd describe as curvy petite. Her medium size breasts, currently concealed only by a thin, silky top, always hung heavy and matched her shapely-but-somehow-still-small rear atop her thick, strong legs, wrapped up in a thick but light skirt. Now, the tears danced in the corner of her eyes. She bit her lip, holding back a sob.
"You aren't worthless, Margaret. You never were. You're a smart, bright and caring woman, and you deserve way more than he gave you." I leaned forward, resting my forehead against hers. It was something I'd learned she enjoyed, and I thought she needed something comforting... I was wrong. She started sobbing again.
"Nobody ever sticks around! Nobody loves me, Roger!" She clung closer, arms squeezing me very tightly around my chest. I extinguished my cigarette, inhaled the cold night air, and started to speak.
"Damn it, Margaret, I lov-" I don't know which of us started the kiss, but I know neither of us broke it. Our lips sought each other, reveling in the pressure even as they parted, permitting our tongues to heed the cues neither of us quite knew were there. She almost pounced, straddling my lap, her hands catching my head as I grabbed her hips. Our bodies pressed together against the cold window, the cold of the concrete underneath us highlighting the warmth between us.
Long, joyful minutes were spent there, finally expressing the long-felt emotional call I'd never known I'd had for her. Our tongues danced together, bound by music unheard by any but us and us alone; a sweet, rising tune with undercurrents of intensity quickly building to overtake the piece. Our hands were reckless, unguided explorers, rushing for any new spot to be explored, diving under clothes one moment only to squeeze and fondle supple flesh through clothes the next.
Almost as quickly as it had begun, it was over. She rose to her feet silently, and I waited, expecting anger, distrust or the crushing defeat of a silent walk away. Instead, she took me by the hand, guiding me to my feet and led me around the store, almost without waiting. In silence, we moved through darker ground. I considered her deliberate yet anxious pace, uncertain of what was next.
Around the next corner, a small alcove cropped out from the rear of the hardware store. It was not warmer, but it was at once both private and exposed, and the dim sodium light lent a warm sepia tone to the area. It was there that she stopped me, turning to face me under the light.
