Long Term Parking - Part 4
She laid her bike in the tall grass next to his hoe and cracked glass jar, and he led her several rows into the hip-high soybeans and she noticed that they were a deep, deep green and that the soil was a rich coffee, and as they lay between the plants on the damp and musty soil, and she watched his blue eyes as he smiled up at her, she realized this wasn’t making love, of which she had read so intensely in Vogue and Cosmo and Seventeen. It bore no resemblance to her stepfather, sweet Ted, and his grubby little dirty finger-nailed assaults, which began when she was six, began shortly after he had married her mother and moved into their house, and ended when she was thirteen, on the morning when he died so peacefully among the bright reds and purples and yellows and oranges of the flowers in the garden, when he fucked her in his spider-infested and dusty workshop next to the house, under her bedroom window.
No. This was the rutting of animals. This was National Geographic. This was nature. It was wild and animalistic, and she and the young man ravaged the remainder of the summer.
