The Boy Next Door: A Dead Possum and Possible Necrophilia

     Over one year and 1,452 trees into drafting my novel, Woman on the Verge of Paradise, I'll be sharing excerpts with you. I estimate publication within 16.5 years from now. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy some samples. 
     This scene takes you to Parkside Manor, where I lived when I moved from LA to Oakland in 1992. I soon met the quintessential boy next door, and he lived next door. What could possibly go wrong?
 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“How do you get your dishes so clean? They’re so shiny.” My inquiry followed a tasty meal of scallops and pasta, garlic bread, and red wine. Noah placed our kitchenware in the sink, and teased that a dishsoap-plus-water formula helps.

I stood nearby, gawking. “I mean they’re just so perfectly clean. I can never get mine to look like that.” 

Noah wiped his hands on a washrag. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you seeing anyone?”

“No.”

“Then…can I kiss you?”

An excited nervousness pushed a “yes” through my mouth.

 Noah walked over to me, tenderly cupped my chin in his hands, and began dabbing my mouth with his tongue as if attempting to budge a dead possum.  He merged us over to the futon couch and continued.

“You don’t have to do anything. Don’t even open your mouth,” Noah instructed.

Keep my mouth closed and do nothing? Like a corpse?

He re-dabbed. I gently inched back, wondering about Noah’s leanings towards necrophilia. Still, we liked each other. He was respectful enough to ask if he could kiss me, and he made dinner. Best yet, I kept thinking, he lives next door. Despite the weird tongue interference, I’d transitioned my life into a romantic tale.

 “Sorry,” Noah said.  “Are you okay with this?”

“Yeah, I just need to take it slow that’s all.”