Eli
by Elizabeth Enochs
Eli was tall and thin with big hands that were always surprising me. Sometimes, when we were lying down, he’d raise my shirt and rest his palm on my belly button, sliding his pinky finger under my panty line while his thumb wriggled beneath my bra, and we’d lay like that for a while. I remember him running the soft pad of his thumb across my bottom lip, biting me gently and kissing me, lightly wrapping a hand around my slender neck.
Eli brought me flowers and told me I was too good for him. He trapped love notes under my windshield wipers and wrote me letters when we were apart. He liked grabbing my ass in public and kissing me hard—harder when he caught people looking. Sometimes, he’d whisk me to the library so we could kiss in front of the books.
The first time we were alone in the dark Eli pushed two fingers deep inside and I could barely speak until he pulled them out. When it was all over, they moved from my warmth to his mouth in an instant—like he was licking icing from a spoon. I fell asleep with my head on his chest and woke up so sore I had to ice my pussy with a can of frozen lemonade I found in the freezer. His whole body laughed when I told him about it. “What the hell are you going to do when we start having sex?”
Eli drove a manual pickup truck and held my hand when he wasn’t shifting gears. Sometimes, I’d toss sandwiches and cola in a cooler and we’d roam back roads until the sun set on a clearing worth pulling over for. He’d pile the truck bed with blankets, and we’d watch stars fall to a deafening chorus of whip-poor-wills and cicadas. I remember how he’d hold me close and point to Sagittarius—then tug on a fistful of curls and trail my neck with kisses while the archer watched.
One time, Eli raised my skirt to nibble on my inner thigh until the soft meat blushed purple-pink. “I like that,” he’d tell me later, caressing the bruise with a grin.
We started planning a courthouse wedding after Eli’s unit was ordered to deploy. I bought a white dress on sale and he drove me to Sioux Falls to meet his dad. We picked a date and told our friends. I even spotted a small velvet box in his boot once—but I didn’t open it and he never showed me.
Sometimes, I imagine that box living in a dusty pawn shop near Kansas City, its gleaming contents always on display in Midwestern sun.
Eli brought me flowers and told me I was too good for him. He trapped love notes under my windshield wipers and wrote me letters when we were apart. He liked grabbing my ass in public and kissing me hard—harder when he caught people looking. Sometimes, he’d whisk me to the library so we could kiss in front of the books.
The first time we were alone in the dark Eli pushed two fingers deep inside and I could barely speak until he pulled them out. When it was all over, they moved from my warmth to his mouth in an instant—like he was licking icing from a spoon. I fell asleep with my head on his chest and woke up so sore I had to ice my pussy with a can of frozen lemonade I found in the freezer. His whole body laughed when I told him about it. “What the hell are you going to do when we start having sex?”
Eli drove a manual pickup truck and held my hand when he wasn’t shifting gears. Sometimes, I’d toss sandwiches and cola in a cooler and we’d roam back roads until the sun set on a clearing worth pulling over for. He’d pile the truck bed with blankets, and we’d watch stars fall to a deafening chorus of whip-poor-wills and cicadas. I remember how he’d hold me close and point to Sagittarius—then tug on a fistful of curls and trail my neck with kisses while the archer watched.
One time, Eli raised my skirt to nibble on my inner thigh until the soft meat blushed purple-pink. “I like that,” he’d tell me later, caressing the bruise with a grin.
We started planning a courthouse wedding after Eli’s unit was ordered to deploy. I bought a white dress on sale and he drove me to Sioux Falls to meet his dad. We picked a date and told our friends. I even spotted a small velvet box in his boot once—but I didn’t open it and he never showed me.
Sometimes, I imagine that box living in a dusty pawn shop near Kansas City, its gleaming contents always on display in Midwestern sun.
Liz Enochs is a writer and journalist from a small town in Missouri you've probably never heard of. Her nonfiction has been published by Narratively, Leafly, Bustle, USA Today 10Best, and many others. So far, her fiction has been published in Open: Journal of Arts and Letters, Remington Review, and Amethyst Review. More often than not, you'll find her in the woods. Visit her online at www.elizabethenochs.com.