"A FRIEND TO HER"
by Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz

Shelly's on time, but her face is a mess. Her green eyes meet my stare, just daring me to say something.
I ask if she wants a soda.
She shakes her head and goes off down the hall.
"Let's just get this done."

I follow her to the second bedroom in my apartment, empty save for the exercise mat and sheet folded neatly in one corner, the toolbox with my art stuff and the pile of spiraled sketching pads.

I'm in the doorway and she's already naked, clothes tossed on the floor under the window. I watch her body as she unfolds the mat, spreads the sheet over it. She sits down cross-legged and looks up at me.

I push myself in, head to my stuff and begin making choices.

"This is gonna have to be short; I've got to get somewhere."

A date with the courthouse?

"Okay," I say and sit across from her. I catch my hair behind my ears, twist it in a loose knot at my neck. "We'll just do your body," I say.

She gives me a dirty look like there's something I'm implying.

I give her a 'fuck you' look in return and flip open my pad.

She takes it out on me frequently; whenever John takes a swipe at her, she's got to take one at me.
And she knows she can, given the way I feel about her.

A time before I'd tried to confess, but Shelly told me, "Don't," her palm in my face, keeping my desire at bay. "You don't even know what you're saying."

"I know I wouldn't do this to you," I said in defense.

"Shut up!" she'd screamed. "You don't even know."
"You see this," she said, holding her hands to the yellowing blotches on her face, "and you decide that it means only one thing. You don't know the other that he does for me."

I was sure it wasn't much, but I said nothing.

She doesn't know what I would do for her. Doesn't know what I already do for her.

Sometimes I want to bring out my entire portfolio and show her how truly one-dimensional she can be. I would show her the sketches I don't alter, the way her eyes sit flat, her mouth a simple line, unwavering.

I'd compare them to the ones that hang about the room and tell her: You are at peace because of me.

And these Shelly, these here where laughter glimmers in your eyes and your lips dance in joy - that's because of me. I make you happy.

I ask her to pose a certain way, but she's not getting it. I want to set my pad aside, crawl over to the mat and arrange her body but I don't trust myself.
Eventually, she's close enough to what I want. She stares off, lost wherever it is she goes while I draw.

Neither of us notices when my cat comes into the room. But I glance up to see him, just before his tail brushes against her leg.

Shelly jumps. Yelps in surprise.

I drop my pad and charcoal, shoo my pet out of the room.

Returning, I find Shelly collapsed on the mat, crying silent tears. I sit next to her. Tentatively place my hand on her back.

She looks up. "He was throwing my shit out of the apartment and Ming got out."

Ming is her Siamese cat.

"I looked for her and waited all night but she didn't come back. In the morning, I found her around the block. She'd been hit."

Her tears become audible. I pull her against me.
" John wouldn't even bring her home," she mumbles against my breast. "I had to wait for the people from animal control."

My mind races; I need to say something brilliant.
Not something that'll knock John; I've learned that it won't work with Shelly. I open my mouth and words follow.

Shelly is still for a moment, then she pulls away, considering me.

Encouraged, I pull my shirt over my head. I never wear a bra and immediately my breasts are electric with the thought of the silk of her skin, her pink nipples dancing against my dark.

I lift her chin, move her mouth toward my own.
She's trembling in my hand, but still she does not turn away.

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Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz is a fiction writer and poet. When she isn't writing, she performs comedy and raises turtles for fun. She can be reached at gwendolynjoycemintz@yahoo.com

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