It was all that I had left of her. One photograph. The rest of her suddenly left one day, and I was alone. She took everything with her when she disappeared. Like a whirlwind, she swept up all the memories and her things and carried them with her out my apartment, out of the city, and seemingly, out of this world.
I guess she forgot about the photograph. If she had remembered it, she would have taken that too. I kept it in a desk drawer in my home office. When bad days happened and my creativity evaporated into the smoggy city air, I took it out and grabbed a towel. I was always careful and never let it worsen from pristine condition. It was my favorite photo of her. She was stunning. She was a goddess in that shot. My friend took the Polaroid. He specialized in erotic photography. He set the stage for my girl to be the star in that perfect black and white.
She got all dolled up that day. She wore heavy, charcoal liner that accentuated her deep, blue eyes. Unfortunately, the photo wasn't in color to capture those sapphire irises. Nor did it show the sinfully scarlet lipstick that stained her perfect lips. But I could tell how light her hair was. Her naturally blonde hair fell over her shoulder in huge, glamorous waves. Her jet black "naughty attire" -- as she called it -- contrasted against her pale, unflawed flesh. A tight and very expensive corset encased her voluptuous breasts and tiny waist. Garters divided her lovely, petite ass; the black stripes connected daring lingerie to racy stockings.
It was a huge change, yet she looked comfortable in the smutty garments. She ditched the long, cotton dresses and the simple braid she wore everyday for all nineteen years of her life. She loved feeling the air against her skin and the wind whipping her hair around. It was the taste of freedom she was looking for.
I had to whisper that word to her often. "Freedom," I said when she hesitated. "Freedom," I said when she was too scared to try. "Freedom," I said when I saw Satan reeling her in. The fun started when the devil finally claimed her soul. It was the same word I whispered to her when she ready to pose for that photo. She breathed deeply, nodded, smiled as the devil seduced her, and then laid her body over my lap.
The angle of the picture was slightly high. All anyone could see of me was my downward tilted head and my right open palm set about twelve inches above her ass, ready to strike for the second time. Her head was cocked back; her eyes were trying to look behind her at my threatening hand. There wasn't fear or pain in those eyes. They were innocent, pensive, and curious. She was dealing with the overwhelming feeling of sexual pleasure settling in instead of wincing from pain. And what the photo also didn't show was the fresh, pink handprint I marked her with seconds before.
The rest of the story of that photo remained branded in my mind like how the photo was branded on that Polaroid paper; both would stay forever. But as time slipped by, it seemed to be a vivid fantasy. The photo was the only proof that she existed. It was the only thing that made that summer real.
One month after that night, she was gone. It was a miserable two months after. I mourned her loss by downing every bottle in my liquor cabinet and getting so drunk that I was crying her name over and over. It took a while for the sharp pain in my chest to subside. Ever since I came home that night to find her missing, I felt my body flare up in physical agony. She packed up the plain clothes she came in and took the trashy apparel with her. All the makeup, pearls, and mementos were gone. It was as if she wanted me to forget her.
The photo was my savior. Without it, we were nothing. I thought she would stay and stay with me forever. That's what I assumed the night I took her. She seemed so happy. We seemed to be connected. I never knew a woman so willing to be spanked as I was willing to spank her.
The temperature was gradually dropping to the lonely, frosty winters I've endured before. I spent most of my time looking out my window, trying to find motivation as I watched New York turn from summer to fall. My typewriter had seen more action that summer than any other, even with her around. She wasn't that much of a distraction. She was my muse, my creative energy. After she left, my writing suffered to the point where typing a coherent sentence was a struggle.
I thumped my head against my desk. There was no hope for my career, not with her still in my head. I chucked my pencil across the room and swiped my notebooks off the desk in a small tantrum. I was losing money. I was close to not being able to pay my rent. I needed her beside me. I pulled open my drawer and grasped the photo in both my hands. My frustration made me tremble and almost made me crumple the picture. I let it fall from my hands before I could damage it. One last desperate option flashed in my mind. I knew what I had to do.
With a nod, I tidied up the mess I made. I was going to find her and bring her back to where she belonged.
In less than an hour, I had my bags packed. I gathered my maps and notebooks. I searched my memory for any clues that would lead me to her. Her sexy lips muted the words that came from them. I could barely hear her when she spoke. I could only concentrate on her lips, breasts, and ass. Finding her was going to be a hell of an adventure. I had very few leads.
On the way to the garage to my crappy, barely used car, I made a mental list of tips that would help me. Once inside my vehicle, I opened one notebook.
Instinct told me to start heading west. I grimaced at my shitty car. I didn't know how many miles it had left in it. I had no money to buy a new one and no way to trade it in. The radio buttons were sticky, the heater barely worked, the a/c was just as useless as the heater, and the grimy driver side window was almost stuck in place. My hand hurt like hell trying to roll it down. It didn't have any of the bells and whistles they have now. My piece of shit from the early eighties was severely made fun of. I told all of my wealthier friends to fuck themselves. It was only 1995. Give me some time to catch up with technology.
And how I wished technology was at a place where I could easily search for her. I wish there was some console where I could type in her name and the car would whisk me away to her, only by punching in a few words.
I pulled the cap off my pen and started to write.
"Brittany..." I wrote at the top and underlined it. Then I crossed it out. That was her nickname, the one we chose together, the name of her alter ego.
"Angela..." I wrote just below it.
Angela what? I strained to remember her last name. She only told me it once when we met. I thought it was something Irish...
Or German...
Or French?
I skipped the last name and wrote down her physical details.
"Light blonde hair. Blue eyes. C cup boobs." I tapped my pen on the paper. "Gorgeous smile."
Next, I wrote a heading titled: Family. She spoke little of them, but those details I remembered somewhat clearly. She grew up in a strict, religious family. Amish? Mennonite? I couldn't recall. I knew her father sent her to the real world for a summer to experience the sin around her. She told me he was confident she would fly back to their pious nest after the summer had ended. How could he have been so right? She was never happier -- she told me that.
Pennsylvania was my first try. Maybe I would find her somewhere in the Amish country. I threw the notebook aside and started the car. I peeked at a map and headed west. I hoped luck would be with me and that she was really that close all along.
After a few hours, I turned south as recollections started to come back to me. At Philadelphia, a memory sprang to my mind of a conversation we had that made me turn away from Pennsylvania.
We watched the sunset on the roof of my building until the sun had gone completely. She shivered as the cool breeze picked up piercing through the summer heat. I put my arm around her and held her close.
"The lights are quite pretty here, but-"
Partially drunk, I unintentionally interrupted her. "Are you even allowed to use lights at your home? Do you shun all technology?"
She turned to me, lips pursed. "I never said I was Amish or anything like that! My father is just deeply devoted to his faith." She added a strange afterthought. "No one dresses like us from where we're from."
The hint was an enormous clue to me. She wasn't in a religious community; that erased a few small possibilities. The bad news was that she could be anywhere.
