Touchdown Desires

by Jenna Payne

  “Right,” he says, dropping his shirt. “So, then you are cool if I smoke?” With him buying the ‘human body’ thing, a flush of relief washes down my own.

  “Yeah,” I answer. “I’m cool if you smoke.”

  “Cool,” he says, immediately lighting the joint, rolled in a black paper. “Just don’t get it on camera. I don’t need any more incriminating photos, okay?”

  As he takes a hit the smoke rolls out of his mouth, he tilts his head, and returns my glance. His hand reaches out, the joint between his fingers and pointed toward me.

  “I don’t usually smoke,” I say. “Actually, I’ve never smoked.” There is no point in lying about it. I haven’t. There are a lot of things I haven’t done, but the list is getting smaller the longer I’m here with Roman.

  “You don’t have to. I’m not going to force you,” he says. “I’m not that type of dude. But out of courtesy, it’s here if you change your mind. Plenty of it. Hell, it might help chill you out.”

  “Chill me out?” I say, instantaneously catching how offended I sound, and am. I want to relax because Roman’s casual attitude is so reaffirming. The dank aroma of his joint clouds the room. It’s not like I haven’t been around it before; I’ve just never taken a direct hit of the stuff. Once I take enough steps backward, I feel the bed against my calves, and I take a breath. Like a warning sign, my phone goes off again. Buzz buzz.

  “Ah!” Roman laughs, taking a last hit of the joint before placing it safely in the ashtray. “You cannot escape your destiny, Vylette. It’s calling you. Literally.” He laughs at his own joke and then stands in front of the thistle sheet. His coffee complexion bounces aesthetically off the soft pink backdrop as he embraces his own buzz, leaning against the wall with his head, his abs twisting around. With his torso like this, I can see a new tattoo—a flower.

  “Is that seriously a violet?” I ask. It’s been a curse and a blessing carrying such a common name for a flower.

  “That is seriously a violet, Vylette,” he laughs soft this time, tuning in to the continuous and jumping music below. It must be around eight o’clock, and Roman’s moving to slow trumpet, snapping his fingers. The whole scenario doesn’t even feel real, but I can’t blame the guy for going with it after a little bud. The violet on his lower back is rooted somewhere below his beltline, and I can only imagine if there is an array of roots tattooed beneath the flower.

  I stand up, put the strap around my neck, and say, “Okay. How do we do this thing?”

  “Don’t make it so weird,” he says. “This is art.”

  “Right,” I answer. “Art.”

  “Remember,” he says, still snapping, “No pictures of my face, and try not to get anything in the apartment. Just my body and the sheet, dig? This is for you. Nobody else.”

  “Yeah, I dig,” I repeat, knowing how stupid I sound, like some kind of apprentice. I am dreadfully precise when taking his body into my frame. With the rubber viewfinder against my eye, I focus on his stomach. The 50mm lens allows me to capture a sharp image of his abs and naval with the background blurred out. Looking at the viewfinder after the image is taken, the hairs on my neck prickle and then the photo disappears. I look up to him and he’s ready, waiting for another.

  It goes on like this for hours, both of us lost in the smoky haze of the joint and the ambiance of muffled music. The more photos I take of Roman, the more of his body he reveals to me. Finally, he walks toward me. I only notice at first because his lower pelvis goes out of focus. “You must be getting hot,” he says, referencing the heavy Carhartt that I’m still wearing. Come to think of it, I do feel moisture building up in my lower back. The longer I’m in The Brush, the more it really does feel like a rain forest. Inches away from me, I want to reach out and touch Roman’s scar, get my body tangled in his vines.

  ***

  The next morning, I wake up and try to go through the photos of last night before Malik wakes up. If I’m going to get them turned in before class I need to compile a 10-page essay in less than hour when Malik’s alarm will go off, 6 A.M. on the dot, every morning. I upload the photos to the computer and by the time the transfer is complete, there are 112 photos in the new folder.

  Somewhere around photo 80 is when I took my Carhartt off, and somewhere around 100 came the rest of my clothes. I look at the remaining 12, trying to piece together what happened before each one. The first of 12 is Roman wearing nothing but my Carhartt, the focus on his pelvis. It required getting the camera very close to the subject in order to get the photo just right. The remaining 11 are all taken from the point of view of Roman’s bed, with him getting closer and closer in each one, until the last picture, which is completely black—his entire body swallowing the frame.

  I think fast and try to organize all the photos quickly by ‘Ones That I Can Use For Class’, ‘Ones That No One Can See Ever’, and ‘MEO’, which is my code for ‘My Eyes Only’. Although I haven’t slept all night, I work with precision and fervor. The last photo I look at is the one of Roman painting right before the cops showed up. I question deleting the photo altogether, and am surprised that Roman didn’t go into the camera and do it himself when I fell asleep. I’d rather keep it to myself, for safe keeping, because for once it is a photo of a person in their habitat that I am proud of. I put it in the ‘MEO’ folder just before Malik’s alarm goes off.

  Thankfully the University runs early and late busses, so I can get out just before Malik is out of bed. I don’t think I could face him and our normal morning routine of bullshitting while I pretend to do homework. Not after what happened last night. I never answered his texts, and instead, when Roman laid down next to me, I shut the phone off completely. I didn’t want to be bothered, or have anyone question what I was doing.

  I get to campus super early; the sun is just coming up. It’s moments like this, moments in the crisp California air, that I can’t help but marvel at the beauty all around me. The sky begins its cascade of blue, and in moments, the classic Los Angeles sun is bearing down again.

  I nod off in the hallway outside my class, and my eyes barely jolt open as the last of the students file in an hour and a half later. Even sleeping sitting up, it only felt like five minutes. I look around the hallway for Roman, but figure he must have walked right past me and is already in the classroom. I go in after everyone else and sit in my normal spot, but he’s nowhere to be found.

  I pull my CD-R from my bag and pass it down the row with everyone else’s from my right, and Professor Danteridge collects them as he walks down the stairs on my left. The empty chair troubles me. Maybe he’s just running late. I can just picture him sleeping in past his alarm, nestled in his black comforter in the dim light of The Brush.

  Then it hits me that he could totally be ashamed of the pictures I took, and didn’t want to show face. Even though I was careful not to get any of his face, it was also possible that he just didn’t want to see himself on the big screen and listen to Professor Danteridge criticize his abs.

  If that were the case, it would be a good thing, because the professor pulls out my disk from the stack first. While on one hand it’s a relief to get the assignment done and over with, I still feel the same nerves pulsing in me, afraid to expose my work to people. Fifteen minutes into class and still no sign of Roman.

  “I’m sure we’re all looking forward to your work, Ms. Edwards,” Professor Danteridge says. I’m in the hot seat, about to get questioned before the slideshow because his computer is still booting up. “Tell me, should we expect more of your self-portraiture, or have you explored some new terrain, this time?”

  “Um,” I stammer. “A little bit of both?”

  “Answering a question with a question, Ms. Edwards,” he corrects me, popping my disk into the computer and clicking the folder open. “That, I’m afraid, will not work on your final exam.” The room fills with a forced laugh from the rest of the class. I’m not partaking in the chorus.

  The professor turns the lights off and opens the
first photo from my disk. In an instant, there is a giant still image glowing in the darkness.

  “Well, I have a feeling you let someone borrow your selfie stick for this image, Vylette?” The professor’s accusatory tone gets another pity laugh from the class. I stand up and look the professor in the eye.

  “The image is an extreme close-up of a scar running down a male’s right deltoid down to his left lower back. This image explores the canvas of the male’s torso using black and white, sorry, gray scale to contrast the tattoos against the skin,” I say, not stumbling once in my delivery. “Otherwise, the ink would blend in with the skin tone.”

  “I see,” Danteridge replies, unimpressed, clicking to the second photo of three. “Oh, and here we have another anatomical exploration, Ms. Edwards?” The photo is a close-up of the area just underneath Roman’s left pec, with the vined-heart tattoo in soft focus on the background.

  “I thought this one was a simple representation of the heart,” I say, trying to not fall into his trap of anatomy descriptions. And before I can catch my mouth, the words escape, “A representation of love.” Without question, the word rings true, and the professor actually looks satisfied with the response. I realize that he’s satisfied because the response is real, from my soul.

  Without a word he clicks to the last photo on my disk. I have to double take the screen before it registers that the photo is not the one that I had intended. My brain anticipated the photo of Roman’s obliques, stretched out during a laugh—but what I see is the photo of him in his garb and bandana, painting the interior of the parking garage from the scaffold. It is only now, in this moment, with the image frozen in time up on the projector screen, that I see what he was painting was a tree, the color violet.

  It’s hot behind my eyes. How could this have happened? Is it possible that I might have accidentally slipped it into the wrong folder? “Interesting,” Professor Danteridge says, distaste in his scowl. “Is the entire photo supposed to be out of focus?” I realize that in the moment, I had only had time to snap the one picture.

  Before I can answer, there is a loud CREEAK from the top of the stairs. I look back and see Roman standing there, silhouetted from the light outside the classroom. There is but one swift motion of Roman looking into the dark room, catching glimpse of the screen, and exiting again with another creak. The quick flash of light from Roman’s entrance is like an eclipse—momentarily gorgeous and spectacularly blinding.

  I rush behind the row of students to my left and make way to the doorway. “Ms. Edwards?” Professor Danteridge calls out. “Ms. Edwards, do you need to be excused?”

  I drown out the rest of his words as this dark world is again immersed in light on the other side of the door. At first my eyes fail to adjust, and once they finally do, I don’t see Roman anywhere. It’s cold and stale out in this hallway, with rows of empty wooden benches lined along to the exit. I pick my feet up and begin at a sprint down the sandstone corridor, aiming for the glowing red light of the exit sign. This tunnel seems never ending, like the red and blue strobe lights flickering at Eighty8 Lounge. Once I barge through the double-doors of the stairwell, I have one of two choices: up a level, or down. Roman could have gone either way, and I have no idea if I’m on the right track in the first place. The stairwell reeks of musty, stone-worn air, and I blindly choose to go down.

  There are two sets of stairs per level, and two levels I could go down. I’m guessing he headed outside; it’s the most logical deduction I can make. When I get to the last door, the fresh air embraces me like a net. The expanse of the campus is wide, and although there are people straggling about, it looks more empty than full. With a few steps onto the terrace I look around for Roman, but there is no trace.

  THE END

  Bonus Story 24 of 40

  In the League of His Own

  Samantha Banks stood impatiently in line, waiting with her poster nervously rolled up in her hand and a blue marker. She’d been standing in the line for almost an hour since the football players had come out of the locker rooms after the last game of the season. Her team had lost, but it didn’t matter. Blake Stemmons was less than ten feet away. It wouldn’t be long before she was standing in front of him; close enough to smell his shampoo and look into his ice blue eyes.

  She was trembling with anticipation. He looked up at the line, grimaced and looked back down at the sports magazine he was signing for another fan. Samantha watched him look at his phone, scowling again and sending a quick text between fans. He smiled and talked to each person, but his actions were forced.

  More than once, she caught him looking up at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. She smiled, feeling like a million bucks but also feeling a little self-conscious. The room was full of blonde haired, blue eyed bombshells in high heels and plunging necklines.

  The woman at the autograph table was one such woman. Her mini skirt rode up, revealing the bottom curve of her ass cheeks as she bent all the way over so Blake could hear whatever she had said over the crowd of people gathered in the large breezeway.

  Whatever she’d said, Blake winked at her, handing her back her magazine before looking to the next person waiting for his autograph.

  Samantha was getting excited. Only four people ahead of her and it would be her turn to be in the presence of greatness. To get a chance to shake his hand before he signed her poster. Maybe even a hug, though she doubted it.

  The next woman sauntered up and once again, Samantha felt out of place. She was wearing her most flattering jeans and dark brown, mock-riding boots that came up over her jeans and stopped just below her knees. A sleeveless, bright yellow blouse that ruffled slightly in the front and made her eyes appear an even darker green than they were. Her chocolate hair fell in its normal loose ringlets around her face, framing her pert little nose and its smattering of freckles perfectly.

  Or so she’d been told. She’d spent most of her teenage years trying to cover up them up, but had given up long ago. It had been a pointless waste of money and no foundation she’d found had come close to concealing them entirely. She had a glowing, even complexion, and she’d tossed most of her makeup, sticking to a swipe of mascara and a tinted lip moisturizer.

  Her look was best described as minimalist, but in this sea of princesses, she felt decidedly frog-like.

  There was only person between her and Blake. Samantha rubbed her hands down her pants one at a time, making sure they weren’t sweaty. She was so nervous. She’d never been this close to Blake Stemmons and she was feeling especially nervous.

  The leggy blonde sauntered up to Blake, casually pulling her shirt to the side, offering her breast for his autograph. Blake smiled and Samantha saw him mouth “no thank you”. He pulled a headshot from the stack to his left and signed it, handing it to her before quickly picking his phone up and scowling at the latest message.

  Samantha smiled at him when he made eye contact, and she took a step towards the table, trying to walk carefully so she didn’t trip over her own feet.

  Blake looked at her, looked at his phone again and bolted. He stood so quickly that the chair behind him fell down and he shot out a side door. Another player took his spot, waving Samantha forward so he could sign memorabilia for her.

  “What’s your name, Sweetheart?” he asked, pulling a headshot of his own out and signing his name with a flourish.

  “Samantha.”

  “Well, sweet Samantha, I hope you have a wonderful rest of the weekend and thanks for supporting our team.”

  “Oh, uh, yes. Thank you for playing so well.”

  She walked away quickly, mentally kicking herself. Thank you for playing so well? Why had she even said that? What a ridiculous response.

  Samantha looked down at the headshot. She had to admit, the man was handsome, but he was no Blake Stemmons. She hung around for a few minutes, hoping that Blake would reappear and she could take her spot in line again. But the minutes passed and the lines dwindled.

  When twenty minu
tes had passed, Samantha approached a man in a tight white shirt that read “Security” and jeans standing against the wall with his arms crossed.

  “Do you know when Blake Stemmons might return?”

  “Look lady. Whoever is here, is here. That’s how the autograph signing works. He probably went to a party or something. That’s what these guys do when they’re not playing.”

  He didn’t budge and he didn’t smile. Samantha thanked him for his time and he harrumphed at her.

  “What a jerk,” she mumbled under her breath. “Guess I’m not going to get his signature after all.”

  Who was she even talking to?

  Dejected and a little peeved that whatever was on his phone couldn’t wait, Samantha walked down the empty hall and headed for the nearly empty parking lot. So much for getting the signature of her football hero.

  So much for thinking that Blake Stemmons was a standup guy who cared about his fans. She’d learned a lot about him tonight, and all without him saying a single word to her.

  For weeks, she’d been looking forward to this game and the chance to get his signature, and now, she’d wasted a perfectly good Friday night waiting in a line for nothing.

  She dumped the signed picture and the poster in the trash on her way out of the stadium.

  “Sorry, first-year rookie,” she said as she let the picture slip out of her fingers.

  She wanted to forget this night, and a picture signed by someone else wasn’t going to help anything.

  *****

  Samantha’s boots hit the damp pavement and she groaned. The lot was almost empty and she could see the bus stop, way out on the other side. She hoped the buses ran this late. If not, she would have to call her dad for a ride. She didn’t want to drag him out of bed at such a late hour if she could help it.

  When she’d walked to the stadium from the bus stop, it hadn’t seemed that far. But now that she was walking alone, and half the lights between her and the bus stop were out, she felt uneasy. This part of Atlanta wasn’t the safest this late at night. She’d left her purse at home so she didn’t have to carry too much, shoving her phone into her back pocket and her house keys and a thin wallet in her front pocket.