Read Online Cadillac Couches by Sophie B. Watson - Free Book Online
Authors: Sophie B. Watson
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Fiction - General, Coming of Age, Contemporary Women, Fiction / Literary, Fiction / Coming Of Age, Fiction / Contemporary Women
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though, being his favourite, was tougher to crack because they, more than any band, had featured on our canoodling soundtrack. I knew it would probably be okay because they hadnât freaked me out back at the Folk Fest.
Normally I tried to keep a strict regime of letting my thoughts go Sullyâs way only once in a while; when I was safe on my Cadillac couch. Iâd learned to let out the angst now and then to air it. See if it had composted any. But maybe if I went for broke, I could purge him somehow like Isobel said I needed to. Lulled by â5 Days in Mayâ I gave way to thinking about him. The landscape, the open road, all this space was perfect for cud-chewing. When the tape played âDiamond Mine,â followed by âCynthiaâ and Jim and Greg crooned away, I surrendered to full-blown flashback mode, kind of like blowing your diet and eating a king-sized chocolate bar and then a block of cheddar cheese, a bag of nachos, and then Cappuccino Commotion ice creamâweâve all had days like that.
Christmastime Three and a Half Years Ago
Mexico, December, +35 Celsius,
blue and cloudless = nuking sunbeams
Margaritas = icy cold and super fruity,
tequila arriba arriba
Under the zapping rays of Mexican noontime sun, Isobel snapped photo after photo as I struggled to write I Love You, Sully with my big toe in the sesame sand just above the surf. Behind us a band of eight sombrero-wearing, moustachioed mariachis played trumpets and guitarones and sang a song about a town called Guadalajara for a gaggle of Canadian tourists. Four times my I Love You message was erased by a returning wave. This was the spot on the beach where the sand was moist enough to have letters carved out in billboard size. I dragged my right foot and used my big toe like the tip of a giant ballpoint pen. When I finally got it right, Isobel snapped the photo just before the water came and erased it once more. We were on holiday in Puerto Vallarta for Christmas break, lapping up mangoes and camerones, stooging in hammocks under palm trees. Sullivan was at home in â30 Celsius, likely at the ice rink with his sister and her kids, being a good uncle. I hoped this sand note was going to make my coolest love message yet. I would frame it and give it to him for no special occasion.
He had hidden a card in my suitcase that I found when I unpacked the night before. The illustration on the front was of two penguins hugging.
Dear Annie,
I know we will be apart for a few days, really only six sleeps, but I will be sending you telepathic kisses and licks. Our bodies will be slip sliding soon.
Love, Sullivan.
six sleeps soon
We tried to outdo each other with love notes. I loved his gentle, loopy handwritingâcurly like musical notes. He never used pens, always pencils. I guess heâd always had an erase clause.
It had been almost a year since we had collided in love bliss, and it had been some kind of sexual awakening for me. Sullivan and I had thundering sex in bathtubs, oceans, lakes, gas station cans, forest floors, mountainsides, trucks, motorcycles, hammocks, couches, chairs, and beds. We tried all those positions in that funny Indian book, even that outrageous one. My body was his to do with as he pleased; I had given it to him.
That first summer we were together, we were separated for a month because he got a gig working as a production assistant on a film set in Calgary. As many times a week as possible I would drive a hundred and fifty klicks south to the Glennâs diner in Red Deer on Gasoline Alley, the halfway point on the highway, and he would drive a hundred and fifty klicks north to meet me. We would go off the main road and park alongside a prairie field of spear grass and wild barley. I would climb into his truck and we would kiss and make each other come, and exchange mixed tapes and love letters and kiss some more. On nice days weâd roll around in wheat fields and have picnics. Sometimes we
Normally I tried to keep a strict regime of letting my thoughts go Sullyâs way only once in a while; when I was safe on my Cadillac couch. Iâd learned to let out the angst now and then to air it. See if it had composted any. But maybe if I went for broke, I could purge him somehow like Isobel said I needed to. Lulled by â5 Days in Mayâ I gave way to thinking about him. The landscape, the open road, all this space was perfect for cud-chewing. When the tape played âDiamond Mine,â followed by âCynthiaâ and Jim and Greg crooned away, I surrendered to full-blown flashback mode, kind of like blowing your diet and eating a king-sized chocolate bar and then a block of cheddar cheese, a bag of nachos, and then Cappuccino Commotion ice creamâweâve all had days like that.
Christmastime Three and a Half Years Ago
Mexico, December, +35 Celsius,
blue and cloudless = nuking sunbeams
Margaritas = icy cold and super fruity,
tequila arriba arriba
Under the zapping rays of Mexican noontime sun, Isobel snapped photo after photo as I struggled to write I Love You, Sully with my big toe in the sesame sand just above the surf. Behind us a band of eight sombrero-wearing, moustachioed mariachis played trumpets and guitarones and sang a song about a town called Guadalajara for a gaggle of Canadian tourists. Four times my I Love You message was erased by a returning wave. This was the spot on the beach where the sand was moist enough to have letters carved out in billboard size. I dragged my right foot and used my big toe like the tip of a giant ballpoint pen. When I finally got it right, Isobel snapped the photo just before the water came and erased it once more. We were on holiday in Puerto Vallarta for Christmas break, lapping up mangoes and camerones, stooging in hammocks under palm trees. Sullivan was at home in â30 Celsius, likely at the ice rink with his sister and her kids, being a good uncle. I hoped this sand note was going to make my coolest love message yet. I would frame it and give it to him for no special occasion.
He had hidden a card in my suitcase that I found when I unpacked the night before. The illustration on the front was of two penguins hugging.
Dear Annie,
I know we will be apart for a few days, really only six sleeps, but I will be sending you telepathic kisses and licks. Our bodies will be slip sliding soon.
Love, Sullivan.
six sleeps soon
We tried to outdo each other with love notes. I loved his gentle, loopy handwritingâcurly like musical notes. He never used pens, always pencils. I guess heâd always had an erase clause.
It had been almost a year since we had collided in love bliss, and it had been some kind of sexual awakening for me. Sullivan and I had thundering sex in bathtubs, oceans, lakes, gas station cans, forest floors, mountainsides, trucks, motorcycles, hammocks, couches, chairs, and beds. We tried all those positions in that funny Indian book, even that outrageous one. My body was his to do with as he pleased; I had given it to him.
That first summer we were together, we were separated for a month because he got a gig working as a production assistant on a film set in Calgary. As many times a week as possible I would drive a hundred and fifty klicks south to the Glennâs diner in Red Deer on Gasoline Alley, the halfway point on the highway, and he would drive a hundred and fifty klicks north to meet me. We would go off the main road and park alongside a prairie field of spear grass and wild barley. I would climb into his truck and we would kiss and make each other come, and exchange mixed tapes and love letters and kiss some more. On nice days weâd roll around in wheat fields and have picnics. Sometimes we
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