BY TAO LIN

Around 8:30 p.m. we went into a wooded area. She sat in a plastic chair—not sure why it was there—facing a small lake and I began massaging her shoulders. I don’t remember what “prompted” me to do that. I don’t remember feeling nervous while doing it. I looked at the moonlight on the lake thinking something like “the reflection of the moonlight on the surface of the lake” and maybe—in a manner of vague, idle, meaningless acknowledgement—something about the line from a Lorrie Moore short story: if there were a lake, the moonlight would dance across it in conniptions. At some point I noticed “Audrey” making body movements and little noises indicating, to me, that she liked what was happening, which encouraged me to do something. I didn’t do anything for maybe two minutes then kissed her while still standing behind the chair with my body bent. I moved, while still kissing her, to the front of the chair and she stood and we kissed standing for maybe ten minutes. For some reason I keep imagining, as I type this, that she had a tongue ring. I think I’m being confused by her nipple rings (see below) and nose ring. I wonder if anyone “losing interest” in this essay has now “regained interest” after reading “nipple rings (see below).” Seems like now that I’ve foreshadowed nipple rings I can type anything and some people will continue reading. While kissing I felt maybe like we were in the movie Garden State, due to it being nighttime in a wooded area at a university neither of us attended, her being very pretty, and both of us being sort of “deadpan,” among other reasons. I don’t think I specifically referenced Garden State in my head at the time. I don’t really like the movie Garden State, I think.

Tao Lin (b. 1983) is the author of six books of fiction and poetry. His second novel, Richard Yates, will be published September 07, 2010 by Melville House. He has a blog.

Read Tao’s interview.

Back to contributors.