He watches me wipe engine grease on my trousers.
The sun beats down hard on us both. I wonder if he'll go away if I leave him waiting long enough. I use an old rag to swipe at the sweat that has collected above my brow. It makes matters worse, adding to the smears of black and brown, dirt and oil.
It's been months since I've caught a glimpse of him; more since we've spoken. Ever since my fella caught us pawing at each other, all teeth and claws and snarling, like rabid dogs in heat.
I sit in the dirt and bend my legs at the knees, oil-stained rag in my lap, digging in my heels and claiming the territory as my own. If he wants to cross this path, it'll be him that falters, not me.
We both know better.
I could've gone a lifetime without catching his scent, and no one'd ever be the wiser. He'd live behind my eyelids whenever my mind got too quiet, whenever my insides started to ache for a touch no one else could come close to providing.
I should have known better.
His boots crunch against the sunburnt earth, spurs clicking against their own screws with each step. He stops right in front of me; I hold my gaze steady, settling somewhere around the scuffed knees of his leathers.
"Down, girl." He says. I haven't heard him speak in so long, something in my stomach pulls taut when he gives his command; that tone coating my insides like warm, dripping honey.
"Fuck you."
He doesn't tell me a second time.
His fingers twist in my hair, pulling me upright. Part of my body lifts off the ground, and I scramble to get my knees beneath myself, trying for stability. The scuffle knocks me off balance, and he lets me go with a shove, pushing 'til I'm on my back in the dirt, his shadow blocking the sun from my eyes.
I am denied any moment of reprieve; no split second to gather my wits and brush the dirt from the sides of my face. He presses his boot into the side of my neck, holding me where I lie.
"Missed you, baby girl."
When I don't give him what he wants -- whatever the fuck that is -- he shifts his weight to my windpipe, pressing until I'm gasping, struggling for air. He doesn't relent until I'm red in the face, clawing at the ankle of his boot, sputtering out little sounds.
"What's that?" He asks, his weight lightening.
It isn't enough to get the air I need. I suck in pitiful, shallow breaths; my chest heavy and aching. My body protests the abuse, but my brain lights up. All the nerve endings beneath my skin flare, craving more.
Something in my face must change, because he presses and relents again, and again, letting me writhe a little longer beneath his boot.
By the time his two feet are on the ground, those pathetic little noises of mine have softened out. He hadn't pressed so hard my mouth started spraying spittle. Instead, he'd found the point just before my body rejected the touch entirely. He'd held me there longer, pushing and letting go, forcing me to dance along the knife's edge.
I lift my hand, trying to clutch at my neck and assess the damage. He catches me before I get the chance, stepping on my forearm and pressing me into the earth with the full force of his body weight.
He'd been going easy on my throat. As it dawns on me, a smile begins to pull at my lips.
He crouches; the knee of his leathers pressing into my forearm, taking the space his boot has occupied only a moment prior. With one quick movement, he wipes that smile off my face with a strike against my cheek, leaving my skin raw and my head spinning.
But I don't scream or thrash; my shoulders soften and my back relaxes into the dirt.
He puts his gloved finger in my mouth. I let my teeth close around the leather, holding tight. He withdraws, leaving the glove behind.
"I missed that pretty mouth," he tells me, taking the glove from between my lips. He uses the dirty pad of his index finger to trace the line of my bottom lip. I let it jut out into a pout, so that he might linger there. As if he knows what I ask of him, he denies me.
He maintains his patience. Uses the limp glove, held in his balled up fist, to prolong my suffering. He lifts the hem of my cotton t-shirt, damp with sweat and stained with the faint, ever-present glow of the desert floor. I feel the callouses at the edges of his fingers as he touches my skin with a gentleness that doesn't come easy to him. I watch his face, finding an old tenderness I used to see in him.
