Oxnard Stories (fragments)

   Of course he wanted to be there, she was there.

   She was taller than him.  He was five foot ten, but she was nearly six feet.  She was built thick — not fat, not even chubby, but muscular.  She had strong, thick thighs that lead up to a broad, firm ass.  Her wide shoulders spread her shirt to a tight seam.  He noticed mostly, of course, that this tightened the front over her otherwise modest chest.  Waves of hair fell to just past her shoulders, and the flaxen color was blissfully consistent.

    He noticed all of this, every inch of her.  Her stubby, inelegant fingers, the left eye set too low, the ears that peeked out past the waves at the tops.  Her idiosyncrasies were the source of even more lust.  The incisor that was set back so far that it appeared to be hiding, the wide birthmark settled on her right eyelid, the 10 inch long scar running along her right knee.  All reminders of her perfect imperfection.

    She had a broad voice, deep and wide.  She would sing along to the radio, no range, but holding a note to harmonize with the pop music. It wasn't the music he liked to hear, but he wanted to hear her sing it.

    And so he was there.  This fucking movie, with all these people.  He had managed, at least, to sit next to her.  It took angling, but he stepped quickly in the aisle, burst through the group, and ended up floating up the stairs a step behind her, her scent stronger than the popcorn he was carrying.  He settled in next to her, and wanted to lean in, but he knew he should wait for his moment.

    The movie was a superhero blockbuster that he normally wouldn’t have time for, and the theater was packed for opening weekend, which he usually wouldn’t put up with, but there he was, sitting right where he wanted to be, next to her.