My husband rested his arm across my body. His hand pushed gently toward my breasts. I raced to fold my arms over them before he got there first.
I awoke and wandered through the apartment, yawning and wiping away the tears that had dried after leaking from my eyes during the night. My mother wasn’t home. But I wasn’t surprised; there were many mornings when I woke up, at home, alone. I checked on my sisters; they were still asleep. I thought I’d ask our next door neighbors if I could use their telephone to call my grandmother. I knocked on the door. Jesus answered. "Can I please use the phone," I asked. He opened the door wide, inviting me in. All the lights in the apartment were still off; Nelly and Juan must have still been sleep.
The telephone was hooked onto the wall. I dialed my grandmother’s number. The phone rang and rang and rang. I let it ring longer than usual; it took my grandmother a while to make it to the telephone. She had arthritis in her hips.
I felt Jesus standing behind me. He was intimately close, his body rubbed against mine. He reached under my arm; he coddled my not fully formed breast in his hand.
My grandmother never answered. When I turned around to leave he took hold of me, drew me nearer and thrust himself against me, like a dog in heat. He shoved his tongue into my mouth. When it was over and done with, he opened the door and I left. I went back to my apartment and locked the door.
My husband’s hand, though familiar, often reminds of that morning.
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