Guerilla Drive-In

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It all starts at the drive-in.

He sucks her toes.

The night’s hot and dark. She’s thankful he can’t see her face. They keep the windows rolled up and the radio going. Some Willie Nelson song is on, about a girl with blue eyes. Beads of sweat trail from the top of her collarbone to her bellybutton. They pool there, raindrops collecting in a pond. If she shifts they’ll spill. She turns her head, pressing a hand against the image of the movie projected on the backseat window.

He starts slurping on the big toe of the right foot; the left foot finished. She feels his tongue, a big, wet slippery eel, wrap around and tug; lick, lap, like her toe’s a snow cone. She thinks about this. A snow cone would be refreshing in this heat. Take her mind off the slobbering man kneeling below her.

Maybe cherry flavored.

She shuts her eyes, stretching back against the door. He’s on the pinky toe now. Almost done. She imagines how she looks; legs sprawled out, propped like she’s giving birth. The man wedged on the floor, face turned toward her. No officer, he’s not eating pussy, he’s eating toes.

She giggles and the sweat spills. Tendrils of cool liquid run down her sides, wetness collecting on the Naugahyde seat beneath her. The man raises his head, an eyebrow.

“What was your name again?”

“Violet.” She draws her legs back, fluffs her skirt. “It’s my turn.”

He nods.

She crawls into the front seat and shoves the cigarette lighter into its socket. There’s a sigh from behind her and a squeak of the seat as the man moves into place. The handle pops. Removing it, she holds it up, out, the burning ember end glowing orange.

The man offers her his arm. She wipes sweat from her neck, her chest. It’s hot.