The Brandywine Prophet

9.3 Lilapricot'93

As Hyde inspected the oafish form of his naked body in the bathroom mirror, the image returned of that stupid slump of lifeless dog on the Carmel’s front lawn. If Will only knew how appropriate his little parable was...

Hyde splashed his face with water to dispel the disgusting thought, then refocused on his appearance. Until five months ago, his love-handles, moobs and double chin were perfectly comfortable with his laziness. Then he met Baylee online and--even without the promise of a meet-up--he began exercising to bring him back to his ideal one-seventy. Last night the scale read one-eighty-two. Makin’ progress.

Style was a bigger issue than weight. His mother once said he was the only twelve-year-old who ironed his own pants. Baylee liked t-shirts and jeans on men, but Hyde’s closet contained one t-shirt for every five Polos, and one pair of jeans for every ten pairs of slacks or khakis. She promised she didn’t care what he wore as long as she had her boy. 

But he had to wear something so he settled on a pair of black jeans that hung a belt-notch too loose (which made him feel better about his physique), and a vintage-style tee that read “Think Green” with a pine tree growing from the trunk of the “k.”

The back of the condom box had the same instructions as it did five minutes ago, but he had to be sure. The only time Hyde ever donned a rubber was in a gas-station bathroom out of pubescent curiosity. Kayla began birth control two months before the wedding, so there was never another opportunity for practice.

Another text arrived while he sat on the shitter. “IN THE CAR! 10 MINUTES!”

The Holliday Inn was quaint and plastic; a huge step up from the seedy motel-rooms Hyde associated with this sort of thing. The purple evening provided enough atmosphere to supplement the cold fluorescents, so Hyde turned off the overheads and left on a single floor lamp. The queen bed sported teal and peach covers and a mint on each pillow. The curtains matched the comforter in both color and texture and hung straight over cream vertical blinds. Hyde ran his hand along the seam to assure the material could block light.

His suitcase was by the desk, open and sectioned off by six invisible compartments; two held fastidious shirts, two held blocks of pants, one held socks and a pair of brown loafers, and the last cubby was reserved for toiletries.

A knock at the door--it was her! How did he smell, how did he taste? If his heart didn’t slow down... She knocked again and said in that familiar sweet voice, “Hello in there?”

Hyde sniffed his pits, glanced in the mirror; a spurt of cologne in the bathroom and he opened the door.

Here was an angel, the suitcase handle extending to the faux-fur cuff-lining of her plush pink jacket and she dropped the bag to better wrap her arms around his neck. Falling into her warmth she smelled like perfume, her body softer and lighter than he remembered under a grey v-neck and and jeans with a hole in the thigh. Her fingers climbed his back as she held him too, and when she pulled away and studied his face, she was everything he remembered and more; earrings and eyeliner and other feminine details he always missed out on. Her eyes were worn, blue like a favorite denim skirt with pupils as dark as a thousand midnight skies. She was an inch shorter so she wrapped fingers behind his neck and pulled herself to his lips and she tasted just like woman with no hint of lipgloss or gum; just woman and he kissed her again. With a rattle of metal hangers they fell to the wall and she pushed her pelvis against his leg as she opened his lips and showed him her tongue. His right hand explored--between shirt and jacket--the strap and snap of a college-girl’s bra as his left thumb wrapped the string of a thong. But she didn’t swat him away because she wanted him there and he would remember that most: that Baylee wanted him there. She was happy with his hands where they were and her hands in his hair and her nose against his, breathing his air.