2/19/13

A Love Affair
By Mike Putnam


I looked it up online; she drove a Lincoln Town Car. It was a model from the late eighties, judging from the taillights. I think. We met on October 17 at a Shell station just off the highway. We both made the same mistake of pulling up to the pumps that said “Pay Attendant Inside.” Small talk was created when we reversed in sync to avoid the extra steps. That night I dreamt we met while studying abroad in Osaka. I knew it was Osaka because a musician friend that moved there was in a restaurant with other musician friends. Although none of them recognized me. And everything was in English. We ate American Chinese dishes before I walked her to a brownstone she was staying in owned by an adorable homeowner that pulled weeds and made renovations all day.

It wasn’t until November 7 that I saw her again. She had felt gloves a few shades lighter than her car that she pulled on like any cold person is apt to do. Seeing that action made me more aroused than if she had stood naked in front of me. We didn’t speak, I’m not even sure she was aware of my presence. That night I fantasized about her touching me with those gloves. I rehearsed what I would say to her while the more erotic part of my brain played sequences of animalistic desires performed in front of those exiting the highway. Our breath floated to the overhang above us.

December 5 was the last time she stopped at the Shell off of Exit 186. Black tights perfectly hugged legs that disappeared into a navy pea coat. Her sharp features looked distressed and she swore when her credit card didn’t go through. I wanted to hold her, press up against the Lincoln and tell her to use mine. But it worked and she was off, without even a glance. Sadness came over me when I walked around to her side and didn’t find a belonging of hers to take home.


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Mike Putnam is an American writer currently living in Cleveland, Ohio. He has previously been published in Linguistic Erosion, Daily Love and WeirdYear.