Ryan St. Germain

Monthly Archive: September 2014

Good Girl

I spotted her coming down the escalator as I approached the bottom of it. I recognized her legs, her posture, even the dress she was wearing and I knew it was her before I even saw her face. She looked up at me and smiled, recognizing me too. This was the first time that we met, though we’d spent a few months getting to know each other by way of the internet after crossing paths online thanks to a mutual friend. It seemed a little crazy that she should travel over a thousand miles to visit me but at the same time it made perfect sense. We knew before ever touching that when we did it would be addictive and that meeting was a dangerous idea, but we did it anyway.

She came down the last steps dragging her suitcase behind her and we wrapped our arms around each other. She rested her head on my shoulder and we held each other tight. We’d been waiting for this moment for a few weeks, suffering because of the way time dragged on in the last few days leading up to it. She trembled in my arms or maybe it was me that was shaking. I took her suitcase and as we walked away she clutched my arm so tightly and pulled us close together. I looked at her, taking in every little detail as we exited the airport on the way to my apartment.

Emily is exactly what I’ve always imagined when using the word ‘lithe’. Her delicate collar bones peeked out from under a pale pink shirt and the smooth skin of slender arms led down to hands that felt needed to be held. I’d seen her shapely legs in pictures and I loved them even more seeing them in person. Her eyes swirl with blue and green and grey and even flecks of gold; her lashes are delicate and her eyebrows add a hint of seriousness to an otherwise soft, sweet face. Her hair was swept back out of her face and it fell over one shoulder; it’s a cool brown blond, with hints of honey and sunflower. Her bottom lip is slightly fuller than the top and when she smiles, it kills me.

We dropped her things of at my apartment and while walking through the French Quarter together, she reached out and ran her fingers through leaves that poured through a wrought iron fence . She did it again in the park, touching the flowers and leaves as we passed through Jackson Square. She beamed at the crepe myrtles and marvelled at the way the branches of the old oak trees crookedly plunged and rose, touching one of them as we passed beneath. I can’t see those trees or flowers without thinking of the way she ran her fingers over them.

When we returned to the apartment I followed her throughout the long hallway, watching the way she moves, studying her gait, appreciating everything about her. Light poured in through the courtyard, through the windows and on to the brick and plaster of the old walls. We climbed the stairs to my second floor apartment and as her dress moved, I slide a hand beneath the flowing fabric. She laughed a little in disbelief, but she slowed her pace and met my eyes for an instant in the reflection in the mirror that stood against the wall at the top of the steps. Her hips moved ever so slightly as my hand continued on.

We spent three days together when she visited me the first time and it wasn’t enough.

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