A Winter's Tale [Part I]

Part one of my final assignment for Creative-Writing with Alapi.

I remember Cynthia entering my life the day before the first snow fall of grade eight. She sat in front of me in English class, and every day, almost mechanically, she would tie her hair into a pony-tail. Although this may seem like a simple act, the coming of Cynthia’s morning routine began the part of my life you could call, adolescence. She’d begin by flinging her hair back, a purple elastic around her thin, tanned wrists. Lush, peach-fuzzed arms would stretch out, a slight bicep muscle expanding as she’d slowly and smoothly glide it around the wad of glowing blonde-streaked hair. Holding it tight within the palm of her fist, behind her head, she’d gently slide the elastic down. Slowly. Then she flipped up her hair before finishing off.
Other times when she leaned forward on her seat, whenever she’d accidentally drop a pen, or lean forward to rest her head on the desk, I was able see a glimpse of the her holy lower back. On a lucky day she’d be wearing her hot pink thong, and I would become scarlet, the heat rising to my ears. Cynthia was not a shy girl, and after a couple weeks, I was able to construct a rainbow of lace in my mind.

Snowflakes tumbling down desolate Montreal skies, latch onto my semi-long overcoat, slowly enveloping the blackness. It was an old coat, passed down from my cousin -- the material frayed, the mismatched buttons roughly sewed on by my nonna as if done in a rush. Some were more oblong than others and one of them even purple. It was piled deep within my closet as I pathetically wrestled it out for the first fall. The first fall which continues to shriek gusts of wind past my ears, spitting specks of snow, blinding me. The perfect juxtaposition to its scorching summer. My paradise.

I remember being nervous and cold, Cynthia’s body crushed into mine, under my sweaty armpit. We were sitting on a park bench and her nose was red and runny, the tip shining due to the vibrant whiteness of snow, which seemed to glisten off the ground even despite the lack of sun. Her bony fingers strangled my pores, rarely ever letting go. Her low-top Vans were sole-less, and she persevered with them throughout the deadly winter, albeit, not without any complaints.
“my fucking socks are wet again.”
“how about you get some new shoes?”
“how about you suck my dick, Adam?”
“lovely, Cynthia.”
Cynthia.

The basement window rattled in my mother’s duplex due to the weather battering itself against it, and the humidifier I forgot to turn off let out a low hum. Cynthia’s mouth formed the shape of an O around the tip of my cock as she had trouble pushing her throat any further down. I concentrate. I don’t want to finish too soon and seem look like a loser. I chew on the inside of my cheek, biting off minuscule particles of dead skin which latch onto my tongue like leftover bread stuck in teeth. This whole time, I could not turn away from the blonde locks on the back of her head which reflected different perspectives of light as she bobbed it slowly, up and down. The strange sounds of swallowing and gagging meld into a premature orgasm in her mouth.
“sorry. Um.”
“...”
“um, do you need a kleenex?”
“no... that’s okay.”

The next day, I sat next to my friend Devin as he went off on some tangent.
“Adam. I totally just took a piss while drinking from a bottle of water. Isn’t that fucking... what’s the word... fucking... fucking like paradoxical?”
“you’re a douchebag, Devin. That’s just weird.”
“no it’s totally legit! It’s like messing with the body.”
“dude, that’s like taking a shit while eating supper.”
“don’t pretend like you haven’t tried that, bro.”
“don’t say bro, you fag.”

When Cynthia entered the class, I avoided eye contact with her, but nonetheless, she came right up to me and kissed me on the cheek. She bent over to place her school bag on the ground showing off her pink thong. Devin stared incredulously.
Cynthia was the first person I ever legitimately felt passion towards. She’d tell me she loved me, she’d kiss me at any available moment, even in public. She was the first girl to ever give me the attention I strived for, the attention I gave myself. The first girl to take away my virginity and she was the first girl I ever loved.

I remember a week later, getting drunk off of forty’s of 8% Labatt (what we used to call rat-piss) in back of the Place Lasalle with a couple older guys from the neighborhood. Cynthia and I had gotten into an argument -- I don’t remember why, anymore. I stumbled avoiding cracks and potholes in the parking lot. And I saw her, knees on cold concrete, sucking off Devin, his back resting against the maroon bricks of the wall. And he saw me and his body jerked and she turned her head, cat eyes, incandescent in the moonlight.

I remember sprinting home.
I remember shrieks into my pillow.
I remember ripping apart the sodden bedsheets.
I remember my mother trying to hold me down as I punched a hole into the wall and as blood dripped down my wrist.