sadie zapata

Sadie is currently a graduate student in the Bay Area who enjoys creative writing in her free time. Her work has appeared in a few literary magazines but Cliterature is surely the spiciest.


oil and vinegar


Max worked behind the counter. Melanie ate beyond it. She unfolded her napkin the same way every time. Today would be no different. She’d untuck one wing, then the other. She’d open upward, unflick the orchid into a diamond, then tuck the diagonal line between her thighs. They’d shift and smack throughout Melanie’s lunch. She’d order a nicoise salad. Max would bring a basket of bread and she would suck each slice to its wick.

Melanie never dropped a crumb. They entered her mouth at a slant, her lips parting only at the cleft. She sucked them from the pads of her fingers. The nails shone either pearly white or meekly pink. She smelled clean, and little else, though Max reached for more when refilling her water glass. Her outfits were usually starched shut and square across her gatherings of flesh. The day was special when Melanie came into the cafe wearing loose-fitting blouses. This one was a deep green. Melanie walked out to the patio and chose a small table against the glass. Sitting down, she tucked in her front and back then twisted the watch on her wrist. She tilted the menu toward herself but looked out beyond the parking lot. It was mid-afternoon, the time straddling burns and chills. It was the time of not knowing whether to put on a sweater. Melanie hadn’t brought one. The blouse grazed her edges then skid away, embarrassed. Only the wind took her for all that she was.

Max took a pitcher by the throat and headed out to her. Contemplating ovals and spirals and sticky pastas, Max could barely carry the small talk.

“How’s it going, Melanie?”

“I’ve been well, Maxi. And you?” Her eyes were still as brown as dragon meat, with a look that gave her away to Max. They were fireballs shot off in the wrong direction. They moved accurately but with no clear target.

Max returned with the bread basket a few minutes later. Melanie was squeezing a bicep with one hand and stroking an earring with the other. “Oh, thank you,” she said. She briefly rested her hand on Max’s forearm. Ribbons of frenetic energy wrapped around Max’s bones and pulled tight. Max must have been visibly shaking, because Melanie asked “Are you all right?”

Uncoupling a smile, Max asked “The tuna salad?” Melanie nodded. Max stepped back into the café and headed straight to the restroom, neglecting to submit the order.

Max splashed her face with water and leaned against the sink. She felt like she was committing a standing push-up, her body felt so heavy against her hands. The door opened behind her. Melanie.

“Everything is not okay,” Melanie whispered. Melanie was behind Max against the sink. Max’s hands tightened against the enamel. Melanie started at Max’s waist, pushing around her hipbones and down, so that her palms were pressing against the hollowed space between pelvis and thigh. Max felt like she was hanging out of a plane, the parachute of Melanie’s blouse flapping behind her. Melanie’s crotch roved against Max’s tailbone. Their knees were scarcely bent, but Melanie seemed to pull Max onto her lap.

Max’s hands still grasped the sides of the sink. She saw herself in the mirror. Her lower lip drooped and her eyebrows heaved shut against the tension in her neck. She saw Melanie in the mirror, hair redder than brown, straighter than curly. Her eyes were smoke. Her arms spoke for her. She wore her lust in her mouth. She seemed to be eating her own tongue.

Melanie’s hands were bigger, fingers longer than Max’s. They cupped the base of her skull and gently shook her brainstem. Max moaned in frustration. She would not relieve herself but remained folded inside her own intellect, shoulders stiff and lungs cinched. Melanie grabbed her by the jaw and swung her face to meet Melanie’s eyes.

“Maxine,” she whispered. She licked Max from eyelid to collarbone, leaving a viscous smear. Melanie nibbled so lightly on Max’s earlobe, cheek, lip that the loudest sensation was hot breath. Max kept her hands on the sink. Her ankles ached and her knees filled with gold dust.

One hand craning Max’s neck, Melanie dug Max’s shirt out of her pants and crawled up her stomach with four fingers and a thumb. Melanie stopped at Max’s tits, first bobbing them and then stretching the elastic of her large nipples. Her hands slipped up past her breasts and rested on her shoulders. Melanie pressed backwards with her forearms and dug her nose into Max’s spine. Melanie inhaled deeply, what escaped was little more than a purr. Her hips pumped back and forth, more elegantly than intended. She stuck her head underneath Max’s shirt and dragged her teeth first up to Max’s nape then down again past her buttocks. Shivering, Max released the sink and grabbed Melanie by the shoulders, pinching her pink wings and falling slightly backward. Melanie puckered and slit her tongue along the crescent of Maxine’s ass. Stopping there, Melanie yanked up Max’s pants and rested her hand at the small of her back.

“Don’t be afraid to refill my bread basket,” she said, and headed out to the café patio.