Title: Solitary Gives a Man Time to Think
Rating: PG (for a few four letter words)
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Summary: Tiny has lots of time to think while he's in solitary
She kisses like a wide-eyed angel.
It's been two days and I am sitting here in the hole, remembering what it felt like to kiss her. I haven't thought about much else since they put me here. These are the memories that make time in solitary a pleasure rather than the punishment it is supposed to be. I'm half glad they tossed me in here. A man could get shived while his mind wandered all over these memories. Anybody in the population saw me mooning over her this way, they'd never believe all the badass stories about me. I'd probably end up in a fight or worse to prove I was still a man not to be fucked with, a killer. That's the hell of prison. They throw a man in here for being a criminal and then stick him in a box with every other lowlife so he's got to stay a criminal to stay alive. Some young punk would probably want to cut me up to make his own rep. Not that there aren't worse ways to die, especially in this place. At least a man dying with the memory of her kiss would die with a foretaste of heaven.
Even if I never see her again, I will go to my grave savoring the taste of her. It's a warm, spicy taste that reminds me of the first addictive drag of a cigarette or a mouthful of Napoleon brandy. Rich but not overpowering. Strong but not too strong. Just enough to make me want another taste.
When I close my eyes, I can feel the warmth of her skin under my fingers. She fit my hands like she was made for them. Or maybe my hands were made for her. I held her hand for just a moment in Guzman's office and she fit me like we'd been together forever. I imagine for long moments what the rest of her must feel like. I bet she's smooth as a new blade. Like I told her, beauty and steel, just the same as a good knife.
She leaned over that damned metal table and I could smell White Diamonds. What she couldn't teach Liz Taylor. I'll never smell that perfume again without feeling a little weak in the knees. Even in here, that scent hangs just off the edge of my memory and blots out the funk of this place.
I remember how surprised she was when I pulled her towards me. Underneath it all, she's really still an innocent. Sure, she spent 20 years with Ralph Thorson, in his bed, in his life, in that world. I saw Papa Thorson once when he came after a friend of mine. He was a big, tough man who could outcurse a sailor and outshoot most any man. I try to imagine the life they shared, what kind of life she lived with him. I know he brought his business home. She must have seen skips of all sorts - rapists, murders, hookers, pimps, johns, drug dealers, child molesters, accountants turned embezzlers, lovers turned killers. She knows criminal nature. Well, she knows human nature at least. She found me despite the fact that she wasn't the pro in the family. She found me and managed to bring me in without getting me or her daughter or herself killed.
Which makes me wonder why she ever let me kiss her. Let's face it, I'm the poster boy for bad behavior. She's seen my rap sheet. I'm in prison. It's not like she could be mistaken about who I have been.
And yet, somehow, this woman didn't pull away when I grabbed her and kissed her. In fact, when I let her go, she looked like a woman who'd never been kissed and was working to catalog everything before the memory faded. She was startled. And I don't think it was that a fugitive had kissed her either. She was surprised at her own reaction. I think Dottie Thorson found out something about herself in that moment. I think she realized she was still alive despite losing Ralph.
It must have been one hell of an awakening because it woke me too. I suddenly saw myself through her eyes. Somehow, she scraped together enough faith in me to treat me like a man and not just as a prisoner. Maybe it's time to follow her example.