Feeling of Fallin'

Inspired by a Bonnie Raitt song by the same name.

*

It's one of those heavy, restless summer nights; even the magnolia leaves look listless. She sits on the porch in her thinnest nightgown, hoping to catch a nonexistent breeze. The chirping of the crickets sounds dull, torpid. She fans herself and gazes longingly at the flashes of lightning far in the distance. Counting, hopefully, but knowing the rains won't be coming here.

Her thoughts are buzzing, her body burns. She has that itch for him again. They've been apart for too long. First it was angry days, then sullen weeks that slid maliciously into a month and a careless second. It always plays out like that, this nasty waiting game. Each time she's the one who breaks first. She knows she should fight it. She knows this is the path to pain and self-destruction, but her need for him is beginning to overwhelm her pride...again. In her mind she steps onto that treacherous ledge.

*****

They had met at one-or-another barbecue at someone's home. Friends of friends brought her along, insisting she needed to get out more; she had been alone too long. She talked to folks she knew for a while, then wandered off to a less boisterous spot under an arbor laden with jasmine. As she tapped out the rhythm to the music the band was playing, she heard a rich, deep voice in conversation nearby. His tone was urgent, insistent. The answering voice was shrill, angry. A woman in short shorts and some sort of shiny top stalked off along the corner of her eye, her staccato heels not quite in time to the song. An earnest string of cussing followed in her wake.

He walked past her without even seeing her, but she drank him in; worked-in cowboy boots of indeterminate color, pressed dark trousers kept in place by a plain dark leather belt and a silver-and-turquoise concho buckle; light blue shirt with standard issue silver bolo tie. He had short dark hair and a lived-in face, at least in profile; nothing remarkable but he was neither ugly nor handsome. Put it all together, though, and he looked absolutely male. There was no other way to describe him.

She must have made a soft sound of appreciation. Something caused him to look in her direction. The flickering lighting off the patio revealed that he had rich, deep brown eyes. After a tongue-tied moment she managed to croak a quick "Hiya!" just as he began to turn away. She could tell that he was caught in the moment, set to pursue Shiny Shirt until he was interrupted.

After a second's hesitation he settled on his heels, turned back towards her, and replied, "Hi, yourself."

"I'm sorry," she started, "I didn't mean to eavesdrop; I was just watching the world go by."

His eyes crinkled as he made a genuine try to smile. "No problem, just one of those things."

The sound of a sports car revving in the distance made him sigh softly.

"Was that your ride?" she inquired.

"What?" he looked startled, then shrugged, "Well, probably not anymore."

She tried to sound consoling, "Oh, dear," but it rang false even to her own ears.

He ended the awkward silence by offering to get her a drink. She asked for a bourbon and water. After an appreciative glance he promised to return.

The rest of the evening passed quickly. They drank and chatted together; a friend drew them into a small group where they talked and joked. He sat a little closer to her, then put his arm around her as the late-evening air grew chilly. As people began to say their goodbyes she glanced at her watch and made the decision she'd been fiddling with since the sound of that car peeling out of the driveway.

"Do you need a ride?" she softly inquired.

He looked at her sharply and winked. "You don't even know if I'm going your way, ma'am."

"That's Miss, to you," she laughed. "Unless you're headed clear to the coast, I can probably manage."

He gave her an address that was on her way home with only a slight detour.

She held out her hand. He took it and slid his arm around her, real smooth.

She didn't get home that night, or the next. He had invited her in for some coffee, but somehow they had ended up all over each other in the parlor, never even making it to the kitchen. She'd woken in his bed, his arm wrapped around her as if to keep her from running off. They'd spent the day nibbling on various foods, talking about this and that, and fucking their brains out.

The initial romance lasted about 4 months before they had their first blowup. He ignored her; she sulked until she couldn't stand it any longer, and called him with pleas and apologies. She was a moth to his flame. He irritated her again at some point (or maybe she annoyed him that time) and they flew apart again; and again.

The good times were filled with pleasant conversations, parties with friends, quiet weekends, and hot mornings and evenings. He was a skilled lover, tender, patient; discovering with delight that he could bring her off again and again with his tongue and fingers as well as his cock. She was eager to please him in the same ways, giving him intent, intense blowjobs and enthusiastically matching his thrusts.

They crossed paths with Shiny Shirt not long after patching up the third or fourth break-up. The woman's eyes spit at her like a cobra's, but she held her ground. Shiny uttered something about temporary promises, wished her luck, and stalked off. He shrugged and they just walked along as if the whole thing hadn't happened. But, in the back of her mind, it bothered her.

Not long after the following Christmas, she unwisely remarked their time together as 18 months, more or less; he seemed to get a scared look to his eye that he quickly blinked away.

That eye soon started to wander, almost as if in in self-defense. Another fight, another separation, and yet another earth-shaking reunion ensued. The fights were mean, dramatic, awful; the make-ups were mind-bending with their passion and intensity.

Every time, she felt that treacherous ledge under her feet. She was no more prepared to commit to some unknown than he was, but words meant in comfort or camaraderie ended up as accusations and complaints. He was always hangdog when it started, fully willing to shoulder his part of the rough times, but as resistant about making any changes in himself as she was; to his credit, neither did he seem to require a change in her. They just didn't seem to mix well enough, long enough.

And so, she rocked on her porch, contemplating storms past, storms denied, and wishing for something, anything, to miraculously clear the air.

*****

Their last night together had started so simply; bar hopping with friends, much laughter, probably a little too much beer. One waitress started shoving her tits in his face, and the battle was engaged. She always wondered to herself why on earth she got so possessive. She knew he was coming home with her, but she felt compelled to stand her ground. When she went to pee she gave herself an angry, silent lecture in the mirror to just chill out. One of her friends came in with hugs and advice, trying to convince her that she was way too jumpy; this man was crazy about her and why was she pushing him away? She wished she'd had an answer.

He got them out of there fast, before the waitress could get him in any more trouble. She was silent as they flew down the road in his big old convertible. She gasped as he suddenly hauled the wheel over, fishtailing as they slewed onto a suddenly-found gravel road. The car creaked alarmingly as they bounced over rocks and holes until it lurched to a stop in a tiny moonlit clearing.

"What is with you?" he blurted out, "this jealousy thing is of yours crazy!"

"Well I don't feel like the crazy one when you start drooling over some big-titted waitress!"

"I was not drooling!" he protested. "She was all in my face but I didn't like it! I want to be with you. Do you have any idea how many men drool over you? You don't see me picking fights with them or you! Goddammit, you're the one I'm with. Get that through your fool head!"

She crossed her arms and stared into space.

"Fuck! That's it!" He reached for the keys to start the car, and she panicked, releasing the lock and jumping out of the car.

"Fine! Go ahead, I'm done too!" she half-yelled as she darted towards the woods.

He jumped out of the car and ran towards her. "Oh, no you don't! I'm not gonna leave you out here alone so you can have one more imagined grievance against me," he snarled with clenched teeth, as he attempted to grab her arms and push her towards the car. She twisted out of his grasp and started to run, but he wrapped his arms around her from behind, lifted her off the ground, and swung her towards the car. They struggled and stumbled in the gravel until he got her pinned down at last, right over the hood of the car.

She broke his hold on one arm and slapped his face.

He growled and pushed her back against the bumper, raising her off her feet and pushing her shoulders down onto the hood. With one hand, he fumbled with his belt and buttons, nearly ripping his fly open. His other hand held her down easily. She'd stopped squirming, seemingly incredulous that this was even happening. He dropped his pants and shorts, then grabbed one of her legs at the knee, pulling her closer. He pushed her skirt up and yanked her panties down in one harsh move, and quickly impaled her with his cock.

She began to wriggle, to fight against him, but it only made his cock harder. She squealed in fury and he continued to pump into her. Her sounds began to change from anger to desire, her writhing less intent on resisting him and beginning to move with him. She kicked one leg to be free of her panties and wrapped both legs around his ass, drawing him deeper.

He reached around and pulled them apart, his voice rasping as he commanded, "No, dammit! You just lay there and take what I give you! Don't fucking move, this is for me!"

He grabbed her thighs and pushed them down and apart. She glared at him, thunderstruck. He stepped back, disengaging his cock briefly, only to flip her onto her belly. He skewered her again then reached beneath her and caught her breasts in a viselike grip. She yelped at the pain but he was relentless.

He continued thrusting into her. Through the buzzing in her ears she heard him grunting, "Mine, bitch, mine," in time with each stroke. A wave of intense heat swept over her, seemingly to radiate from her pussy outward. He slapped her ass every time she began to move with him. She realized that she was actually beginning to enjoy this mistreatment just before he stopped with a final, feral growl. She could feel his cock pulsing with every spurt, mercifully pushing her over the edge.

When the waves of bliss subsided she tried to twist out from under him, but he held her down with his body weight alone.

His breathing slowed and steadied, and he finally pushed himself up and off of her. He stooped down to pull up his skivvies and pants, wiping his dampened hand on the inside of her thigh. She just laid there in a daze. He fumbled for her panties, slid them up as far as he could, then scooped her off of the hood and carried her to the side of the car.

She stood up for him, at least, but her body felt battered and her knees wouldn't quite hold. With a nudge from him she looked around then arranged herself on the seat. Mercifully, the sticky juices trickling down her legs were stopped before they reached her knees. She surreptitiously dabbed at her legs with her skirt.

They drove back to her house in complete silence. Tears trickled down her cheeks but she remained speechless, lost in thought. He looked over at her a few times, but her stony silence kept him subdued, and his smoldering anger rendered him mute. He pulled into the front yard, and she simply got out and closed the door without a word. He watched until she got in safely, sighed, and slowly drove away.

In the morning she noticed the bruises from the car's front emblem, brutal purple reminders up and down her hip and thigh. She collapsed to the bathroom floor and sobbed.

*****

She stumbles through the ensuing days, doing her work in a mindless, disengaged fashion. Her friends begin to worry about her, but she stays stubbornly withdrawn. She cries again when the bruises have faded away.

Her nights are tortured. She thinks too much, replaying that terrible, incredible scene in her head. She takes sleeping pills to shut out the whispers of "mine, bitch, mine" that wake her in the darkness, her fingers, unbidden, thrusting between her legs.

She finally breaks down and makes the inevitable call. But this time there's no answer and no answering machine with his deep voice to greet her or deny her, only the empty ringing. After the third try she gives up, and thinks about that ledge again.

The thunder sends distant echoes across the fields. She thinks about the note she sent him and silently prays that it will be enough. After too many false starts, she wrote simply "You know where to find me."

She waited for hours the night before. She waits again, tonight, full of stubborn hope. She promises to herself that this will be her last moment of stubbornness. She sees the bouncing flash of headlights and hears the crunch of gravel. She waits, breathless, barely noticing the rain that begins to fall.