Leather
A melancholy short
She hadn’t meant to find it; it seemed to jump from the shelf into her hands. She looked at it, disbelieving, the faded brown leather, well worn in the creases, but the lacing still strong and well knotted. She stared hard at the dark stain that splotched across edge of the thumb, and the memories flowed unbidden, but unstoppable.
She remembered when they’d met. She had laughed at his come-on in the bar, down the street from the stadium where he’d been playing at third, two hours before.
He’d persisted to the point of obnoxiousness and she’d thrown a drink in his face. He’d smiled dangerously, wiping the run-off from her ‘Sex On The Beach.’ She’d stared, liking that smile.
He’d thrown a couple of bills on the table and walked away, only turning at the door to nudge his head out the opening while looking back at her. He left.
She remembered sliding off her stool and pushing the door open, following him to his car, to apologize. He’d leaned against his car, waiting, but there was no triumph on his face.
Somehow, he’d said “I’m sorry,” first. “We won. I wanted to celebrate.”
She recalled in the blur of after, how the leather seat had felt against her bare cunt, how his belt had strapped her hands to the door, how she’d bucked against his cock.