Jesus’ Son, by Denis Johnson

From the story The Older Man:

“Let me go home with you,” I said. She kissed me sweetly.

She’s outlined her eyes in black. I loved her eyes. “My husband’s at home,” she said. “We can’t go there.”

“Maybe we could get a motel room.”

“It depends on how much money you have.”

“Not enough. Not enough,” I admitted.

“I’ll have to take you home.”

She kissed me.

“What about your husband?”

She just kept kissing me as we danced. There was nothing in the world for  these men to do but watch, or look at their drinks. I don’t remember what was playing, but in that era in Seattle the much favored sad jukebox song was called “Misty Blue”; probably “Misty Blue” was playing as I held her and felt her ribs moving in my hands.

“I can’t let you get away,” I told her.

“I could take you home. You could sleep on the  couch. Then later on I could come out.”

“While your husband’s in the next room?”

“He’ll be asleep. I could say you’re my cousin.”

We pressed ourselves together gently and furiously. ‘I want to love you, baby,” she said.

“Oh, God. But I don’t know, with your husband there.”

“Love me,” she begged. She wept onto my chest.

“How long have you been married?” I asked.

“Since Friday.”

“Friday?”

“They gave me four days’ leave.”

“You mean the day before yesterday was your wedding day?”

“I could tell him you’re my brother,” she suggested.

First I put my lips to her upper lip, then to the bottom of her pout, and then I kissed her fully, my mouth on her  open mouth, and we met inside.

It was there. It was. The long walk down the hall. The door opening. The beautiful stranger. The torn moon mended. Our fingers touching away the tears. It was there.