Festival Hook-Up
by Janine Muster
The bands had stopped playing. Most people had gone to sleep. It was no longer dark, but the sun had not yet risen. She had cigarettes, and I had wine. Amid this neither-asleep-nor-fully-awake world we smoked and drank and laughed. Then we crawled into her tent. She was softer than I thought. Her long, brown hair—small feathers and wooden beads were braided into it—brushed my cheeks. She smelled like cedar. Her long tongue found mine to tease it playfully. Her mouth left an aroma of smokiness on my lips. Her kisses had a bittersweet finish.
“We’ll see each other later?” I wanted to spend every dawn with her. At least for the rest of the festival.
“Better not.” She took a strand of my hair and twirled it around her index finger.
“Ok, weirdo. What is it?” Her signals were confusing.
“Let’s just keep it casual, ok?”
***
Colourful costumes dance past me in a blur. I hardly notice the feral hoodies, the flowing dresses, the intricate face paints of the other festival goers. I’m distracted. Finally, I spot her in the crowd. She’s talking to a guy I don’t recognize. Like she said she would, she ignores me. ‘No reason to be concerned,’ I think to myself. ‘That’s just how she is.’
As soon as we’re the only ones around the fire pit and the last sips of whiskey have evaporated, I know it’s safe to take her hand. Our fingers interlock. We walk across the festival ground toward the river. Our clothes come off. We laugh as we play in the water. Waves splash over our bodies. Refreshed and wide awake, we skip through the morning fog. Dawn is our time.
“Come with me!” The corners of her mouth almost touch her tree-stump-brown eyes, that’s how big she smiles. Her teeth glow white in the not-quite-yet-morning light.
Still naked, we scramble into her tent. The first rays of sun shine through the fabric and make her body shimmer green.
“You want to grab a coffee when we’re back in town?” A smell of cedar lingers in the air.
“I can’t.” She starts chewing on her nails.
“Why not?” I grab her hand to make her stop.
“I have a boyfriend.”
That hits me.
Her hand releases from my grip. She moves it so lightly over my thighs, my vagina, my breasts, it tickles. She runs her fingers through my hair and pulls it back. That pressure on my skull sends waves of excitement to my stomach. I’m with her, and it’s like having a piece of dark chilli chocolate melt in my mouth. It starts so innocently and sweet. Then it becomes spicier and spicier and spicier. Until… Damn it!
“Where’s he?”
“He’s volunteering. Probably making breakfast for the musicians right now.”
I want to scream. I want to run away from her. But her touch makes me shiver. Her smell intoxicates. Her taste addicts. So, I stay for as long as I can, knowing that when I leave this tent, we’ll be strangers again.
Janine, who is originally from Germany, moved to Edmonton (Canada) where she completed her Master of Arts degree in Sociology. She still calls the Canadian Prairies her home. Janine works here as a grant writer for a hospital foundation, and she is the dedicated servant to a cat named Sylvia, which includes managing her Instagram account @sylvia.the.moustache.cat. In her free time, Janine writes flash fiction and short stories. Her creative work has been published in the Polyglot Magazine of Poetry and Art, the Microfiction Monday Magazine, and at Flash Fiction Friday. You can visit Janine @nina_muster for pictures of lost objects, hidden treasures, and the occasional collage.