Sepia lowlight image of woman faced away, wearing garter belt.

Flash Fiction: “A Taste”

She’s been waiting her whole life for him, she thinks, and she raises the coffee to her lips.

They’ve been eyeing one another across this diner for the better part of an hour, all while he’s pretended to read his paper and eat his late night bacon and eggs, and she’s forgotten to finish the soup that grew cold not long after she ordered it. She’s been distracted by the rules skipping through her head—don’t stare too much, cross your legs like a lady, don’t forget to eat with your mouth closed—but with the gazes they keep casting back and forth, she doesn’t think these things are really all that important anymore.

Anna pays her check and rises from her booth. She imagines she’ll be the first to leave. That he’ll follow her outside, giving her a moment to reflect on whether he’s stalking her, and if she’s supposed to run. Or if instead she should give away everything she’s actually feeling—the unsteady ticking of her heart inside the safe housing of her chest, the unusual race of her once regulated breathing, or, more than that, the heat that’s slickened at the peak of her thighs, making all this thought a perilous landscape of impossible, inexplicable desire.

But the man is the first to leave. He walks right by her, deliberately meeting her gaze. The brush of his hand on hers cannot be a coincidence, nor the look in his heavy-lidded eyes. And so it’s Anna who follows him outside, Anna who walks in measured steps behind him, Anna who glances up at the stars, just once, reminding herself how small she is in this world as he turns the corner and she’s left to decide one way or another.

Don’t talk to strangers, her mama said.Sepia lowlight image of woman faced away, wearing garter belt.

But mama’s been dead a long time now.

Anna finds him leaning against the backside of the building, staring beyond the edge of the bluff at the water below, where the waves ebb and flow like the surge in her veins. In her head, as she comes to face him, she anticipates the things he might ask of her. What’s your name? Why have you followed me? What are you looking for tonight?

He asks none of this. What he does is take her wrist and pull her to him, so that her breasts are flush with his chest and he’s breathing down over her face. She believes he’s asking for her approval, which she gives in the one kiss they will share—their lips merging, opening, exchanging the bitter trace of coffee, the hint of greasy bacon, and the sweet, sweet taste of spit. His hands are on her ass, molding her flesh, squeezing her closer. She welcomes this, then the way he swings her round to face the building, sliding behind her so his entire body lines her back. Anna gasps when his fingers slip under her skirt, because now he knows just how anxious she’s been for this. For him. Never show a man how much you care she remembers, but his fingers are in her, riding up and hot in the wet desire she doesn’t know how to hide. His teeth find her neck as he wedges her tight to the wall, and Anna’s open mouth grazes the fading building finish. She tongues the wood as he unfastens his pants, then the salty air that kisses her lips and makes her feel alive when he presses his cock to her ass.


This is the murmur she’ll remember him by, a quiet, desperate groan that elicits the wild bob of her head. We don’t take risks. Good girls don’t take risks she’d been told, but as he drives inside she wants nothing more than to risk it all, again and again. Every thrust of his cock brings another moan, another moment, another physical expression she held buried so far inside. She spreads her fingers on the building and arches her back, letting him sink deeper, closing her eyes while the waves sing behind them and he moves faster inside her. He bites her neck again, surely tasting the glisten of sweat that’s broken out along her chin. Her body shakes when he slides a finger in her mouth and she closes her lips around it, the taste of her cunt on his skin. She’s only partially surprised she comes before he does, her whimpers preceding the muffled grunts he makes into her hair. He fills her with the honest, heated greeting of a perfect stranger.

For a minute, they stand like this, Anna smashed between his body and the building. His come is seeping out around his slowly softening shaft, dripping onto the panties barely pushed aside before he marked her as who she really is. Who she’s wanted to be.

The man places a kiss on the edge of Anna’s mouth. It’s tender and indifferent all at once, but she understands the intention behind it, what he’s learned, too. Thank you.

She is still standing against the wall after he tucks himself away, pausing like he’s supposed to, waiting to see if she wants to say something, or if there’s anything else she needs. But there isn’t.

When he’s gone, Anna spins around, her back to the building as the chaos of her belly becomes a soothing warmth that brings a smile to her face.

She’s never taken a risk before.

And she’s been waiting her whole life for this one.

Wicked Wednesday Badge

Man over woman looking breathless

He’s Got Her

I rarely write while drinking. For one, I’m usually out with friends, and sitting down to pen something wouldn’t work in the moment. Then, there’s the fact that my creative process simply doesn’t flow under those circumstances. I might have some good ideas, but they won’t come to fruition in any sort of cohesive way until I’m completely clear-headed.

That’s why today’s poem is a bit of an anomaly for me. A month ago, my friend and I met and played our usual rounds of dice games over drinks at a local bar. And as the evening progressed, we shared a powerful conversation on those people who rip you right out of your comfort zone—loves who make you see things differently, move you in ways you didn’t imagine, and break straight through to your soul. Sadly, he had to leave soon after, but I was still buzzed and nowhere near ready to drive. So I sat in my car for a while, texting friends, reading blog posts, and replaying the conversation.

It was then this poem started writing itself, inspired by the heady nature of the discussion and some memories of my own. I wasn’t able to finish it that night, but I’ve finally pulled it up off my phone notes and touched up a few spots. For the most part, I left the original poem intact.

So today, I’d like to share “He’s Got Her” with you:

Man over woman looking breathless

Sakkmesterke ©



Jade A. Waters

He’s got her
Spread out
Her limbs stretched across this bed
Wrist to headboard
Foot to base
But this has nothing to do with
It’s the way he looks at her
The way he sees inside her soul,
The way his fingers dig
So deep inside her cunt,
Finding her secrets
Her truths
And all her dreams,
With the flick of his wrist and a glint in his eyes.
She thinks for a moment
It’s not right that he can do this,
Not right that he can take her
From cynical to believer in seconds
But he does,
Every time he holds her
Kisses her
Loves her.
This is what she realizes
As he circles her clit with his tongue
And drives those fingers inside;
He’s got her,
Caught her,
Ensnared her heart and soul in his net
For a lifetime to come
Because it’s supposed to be,
Was meant to be.
It is.
So when he thrusts into her,
Grunting, bearing, deep and loving,
She knows—
This love he takes from her
This love she freely shares,
It was never hers to give in the first place
Because she’s always
Belonged to him.


I hope you enjoyed it.


Wicked Wednesday

Legs of couple kissing on beach


I ran into an old boyfriend last week, one that stands out from the others in his own right. The encounter itself was mellow and calm—much like our very short relationship—but it got me thinking about our time together and nostalgia, in general: that special place we hold in our hearts for the memories really worth keeping.

I’d known of C. a couple years before we dated, but I didn’t actually meet him until a strange time in my life. I’d finally ended a five-year bruise of a relationship, and though I’d ventured away from my hometown after high school with big dreams that carried me all the way through college, something about what I’d just been through made me feel like I had to go back. In a sense, I needed to be close to my roots so I could graduate again. I wanted to break out into the world all over, but this time as me, just me, with no noose, agony, or pain weighing me down.

Legs of couple kissing on beach

Miramiska ©

So there I was one night, a couple months home and at a bar with a friend, and this handsome bartender I recognized came to take our order. “Whoa! Hey, C.! I didn’t know you worked here!” I’d said, and we’d been excited to formally meet one another. He was all smiles and charm and nice, exactly like I’d assumed he was after our occasional run-ins over the years, and not one week later we were on our first date at an absurdly fancy restaurant. He said a bevy of sweet things that made me blush so pink he claimed it was his favorite thing about me, and after hours of laughter, wine, and incredible conversation, I confessed that with all I’d been through—a story he, like many others, had heard mentioned around our hometown—I couldn’t handle anything other than light, fun and calm.

And for a while, C. was all those things. He was tall and twinkly eyed, a big carefree bear of a man who loved to make love and cuddle and laugh so loud heads turned. And when we were together, it was impossible not to laugh with him, not to spend hours rolling around in bed and having Sex and the City marathons, or singing at the top of our lungs to silly songs while we drove just to drive, fast and free, enjoying the moment and not really caring where it led.

Fun and free was what our entire relationship was for me—and though we ultimately ended because C. started wanting more and I still wasn’t ready or healed, I think deep down we both knew there was more difference than that between us. In many ways, I was still the small town girl aching to run somewhere bigger, somewhere I could stretch out my little wings, while he was more about sticking to roots, home, and comfort. It was the exact pairing I’d needed then, and yet, not something that could have worked for either of us beyond the length of time it did.

After C., I had more convoluted, tangled relationships. Some were long, some short, but many were not the kind worth remembering. This is why when I ran into C. last week, I had the strongest rush of all we shared in our brief time—not in any sort of pining way, but with that lovely flash of details that had been so good between us. I remembered bowling competitions with strikes and spares earning kisses, swing dancing in our underwear, enthusiastic discussions on the merits of men’s watches and women’s shoes, gentle kisses under a veranda before he told me I had “the most spectacular blush,” attempting to out-sing each other to Cake’s “Love You Madly” over leftovers and wine, and him surprising me with flowers on Valentine’s Day even though we were over, because, as he told me, I deserved them.

As short-lived as my time with C. was, seeing him years later—still bartending, smiling, and belly laughing, proudly showing me pictures of his beautiful wife and daughter while asking after me and rooting me on in that big-hearted way he used to—made me profoundly happy. Our relationship was a couple-month snapshot on a wide panorama of formative events, and the likelihood I’d see him again was fairly small—but when I left the bar giggling, blushing as pink as he made me do over a decade ago, I had the sweetest warmth of memory and the biggest smile on my face.

So I think that’s the true beauty of nostalgia—it doesn’t matter how small the memory is; when it’s that worth keeping, it will always be pure gold.