New Brunette

from Christopher Coake’s “Solos”

I went to him and unbuttoned his shirt and slid it from him. His eyes went wide, but he did not stop me. His chest and arms were almost frightening. They still are. His muscles are so distinct, he sometimes looks like a man without skin. I touched his shoulders and he shivered.

He was very rare, I thought, and maybe then I fell in love with him. 

You can unbutton your own trousers, I said to him.

A few moments later, dressed only in spandex shorts, he climbed for me. He climbed a wall in two or three quick moves, his arms lifting him like he weighed nothing, like all that muscle was only a shell filled with feathers. 

He climbed from the lowest part of the ceiling to the highest, his back rippling near the level of my chin. I scooted the mattress along with my foot. And I could not take my eyes from him. Watching him was like seeing pornography; his movements were strangely intimate. The muscles in his neck and face strained. He made small grunts and moans. A bright lamp in the corner threw odd shadows, and his shoulders began to gleam with sweat.