Short Stories: The Lament of David Davies

19:30

Tesco’s appearance and introduction had bizarrely instilled a kind of reckless confidence in David. His urgency and, dare he think it, honesty, affected David in a way that he himself could not understand. It was as if David knew the universe wanted him to be miserable, sending Tesco from the nether to ruin his evening. But David was having none of it. He was quietly determined to get something out of it and ­ he thought ­ in the remarkably unlikely event that his head would be severed from his body in the process, he didn’t care. It was worth the risk, he thought. He cursed himself impatiently for even considering Tesco’s claim. David stood in front of his flat door in a sober stupor. A knock came again and he breathed in, launching his hand to the knob and twisting.

And there she stood, majestic in her wake wearing a disgustingly excessive red dress watching David. He smiled for real this time, swallowing his usual meddling sick. Yvette spoke first, vaguely French, and quickly too:

David, zorry I’m late.

N—no, you’re not.

That was all he said, and unsurprisingly she said nothing to such a closed retort, tilting her head slightly and letting her fringe fall over an eye. She smirked and bit her lip, sliding her hair behind her ear with a pale hand. David clenched his teeth and gestured to his flat. She entered in six­-inch heels, dwarfing David immensely but this did not hinder the movement in his pants. Her appearance, he thought, could only be a good thing, though it was distinctly out of character.

He followed her into the lounge, where lay still the plates and candles on the wicker table. David’s hands were in his pockets, and she turned to him after glancing at the table:

David, I am zo hungry. May I sit?

O­-of course.

Suddenly Yvette appeared more herself, and David pulled out the chair he wanted her to sit in. She sat gracefully and David stood next to her like an obese tree stump. She looked up at him.

Zo what do you have for me?

He could have easily watched her all evening. She, to David, looked as she did in the office. Perfect. He came to his senses and answered her purr.

I have wine; it’s French to make you feel more at home.

David said this without blinking and was in awe at himself. He hadn’t spoke to Yvette properly in his life, and he was in awe because he was speaking to a woman in his home. He spoke again, bolder this time:

Where in France are you from?

Looking directly into David’s eyes she hesitated and giggled slightly.

Rome, it is a beautiful city. I’d like a drink, David.

He nodded mechanically and entered the kitchen. Now, David is not a stupid man by any means. He had graduated from University with a degree in Town Planning but was ultimately headhunted by a company that lied about their values and David was too much of a coward to leave. The point is, David, if asked on a normal evening what country had Rome as its capital he would indeed reply with Italy, not France. Tonight, however, was not a normal evening, and Yvette’s strange answer had already vaporised in the tiny capillary of David’s brain that questions dubious answers. He had already opened the wine and sat on his chair extremely close to her.

David thanked in his head whomever decided to leave behind the wicker table.

I have waited a long time for zis night, David.

He finished pouring the wine, thinking hard about what to say to such a thing. Yvette took a sip, an action that quickly became large gulps, glugging the wine like a parched perch in a red dress.

David held his full glass in hand, astonished, and slightly disgusted. She finished the wine, wiping her mouth and smearing her red lipstick. It was a face without shame. It was a face, David considered, without Yvette. Her eyes sagged much more than usual, and her top lip curled to reveal an oddly coloured canine. It was like she had been chewing on coal flavoured gum before she arrived.

She stared at David, into his very soul. Frozen, he stared back, and then it came again. A movement in his pants that no doctor could diagnose, no one on this planet anyway. An odd pressure followed this movement. He looked down. It was Yvette or her foot at least; arched with faded red toenails, burying itself into David’s crotch. He watched it for a moment, writhing and pushing. It was pale, almost corpse­like, far more pale than Yvette’s face. Something inside David’s heart screamed.

He jumped up, knocking the table and its contents over accidentally. There was a terrible smash and Yvette pulled her foot back to her chair.

I’m s-­sorry, Yvette. It’s just—

She stood up, tall and empowered and moving dangerously. Animalistic. Primal. This is what David had wanted all this time. But, somewhat inevitably, he was scared.

I’m ready for you, David. Take me.

Her last word trailed off like hot, thick coffee creme and she virtually glided toward David. Two arms suddenly appeared over his shoulders and she moved still closer. David’s heart was working harder than the first steam locomotive.

Yvette w-­wait­­

David must have only said those words in his head because she started to descend towards his crotch, mouth wide open. Amongst the fear and longing in his head, David juggled two very strong thoughts: everything David had ever wanted was about to come true, or everything Tesco had babbled wasn’t babble at all. David harked back to the tiny moments in the office with Yvette, moments where he had an opportunity to gauge her personality. Yvette was quiet. She was polite, in fact, the exact opposite, he concluded, ­of his fantasy woman. He heard the noise of a zipper unfastening and it was at this noise he blurted out:

Wait!

David practically shouted this and Yvette immediately stopped.

What iz wrong big boy, don’t you want to play?

The last person who used the term ‘big boy’ to describe David was his own mother when she continued to burp him aged four and a half. This was David’s first memory, and he remembered it very well. Yvette using the phrase didn’t do much for him. He needed more time to test Tesco’s Testament; he thought, despite his penis thinking otherwise. But before he could pull away she stood up, grabbing his neck and kissing him wildly.

The feeling had begun. That acidic, sickly nervous reaction a boy will get in the pit of his stomach just before his first time with a woman. Yvette pulled away; her face contorted with a passion David had never experienced and out of nowhere she shoved him into the lounge wall.

He stumbled slightly, crashing into his Hi­fi system but managed to stay on his feet. A song began to play, Stevie again, only this time it was more upbeat. David, unsure if this was how everyone began sex, stared her down. She pulled the top of her dress, tearing it down the middle and David couldn’t help but finger his ear incessantly. Yvette seemed to be hyperventilating in just her undergarments while her hands formed like claws facing the floor. There was no escaping this, he thought. David glanced quickly at his watch: 19:45. Those numbers together bore huge significance to millions of humans as the year The Second World War ended, but tonight they meant something else. It was to become the time David Davies would begin to lose his virginity. She pounced on him.

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