She’s talking. He shuts her up. With his lips and tongue. Gliding expertly.
So warm. So sweet.
A cliché. But true.
Wait. This isn’t right.
He’s dominating this. She wants to show him what she’s got. She lets him finish. Then pulls away. They’re both still. Eyes shut.
Take it slow. I’ll show you.
I’m the expert here.
His pants feel tight. She presses herself against him. He lifts her by the waist. Effortlessly. And pushes her away. Gently. She smiles to herself. He is embarrassed.
He’s tired. Maybe we can do this again in the morning.
They’re naked by the window. The edge of the curtain blankets a small portion of their still intertwined body.
Oh hey, have you seen her?
He’s still asleep. She isn’t. There’s a tremor in her heart. She. Is. In. Shit. But she doesn’t feel guilty. She holds on to him. Like he’s the one needing protection. Or maybe she feels protected like that. Against his strong body. Pale and cold but strong.
He gets up. Eyes closed and crusty.
He scrambles back with his hands. Reality sinks its stinging fangs into his skin.
She cups his face.
He is in shock. He pushes her hand away in confusion.
No. Don’t change. You said you were okay. This was okay. You said you’d be cool.
What? Yeah! Nothing’s changed.
She’s standing there watching speechlessly. How could her daughter do this? She’s so young. Too young. She is hostage to half a dozen intense emotions. She throws things against the wall. Then stops to scream. And then she stops to cry. What is it she’s feeling? Shame? Betrayal? Disgust? Disappointment?
You’d better leave. I’m sorry.
No, it’s okay.
She’s fully awake. Bitter with resentment. He’s still groggy. But he’s up. Her mother collapses to the floor, overwhelmed.
You. Are. Full. Of. Bull. Fucking. Shit.
Show some respect! Can you never do that?
She screams, gripped with anger and hatred she knew she always possessed.
He hugs her from behind.
I’m sorry you had to see this. Welcome to my life.
He smiles. He says it’s okay. She wonders if that’s because he’s seen worse. Or maybe he lives worse. He puts his jacket on.
She looks down on her thigh. Looks like a bad bruise. She scratches it. Wait.
She peels it off.
It’s just a sequin.
Nice. Now you have a little thing to remind you of our little thing.
He flashes his trademark smile.
What’s your little thing?
He pulls the side of his shirt to the front, arching his back.
There’s a smiley face sticker stuck on it. Hers. She wants to hug him.
He steps back.
You said we were cool.
Yes. Now come on.
There’s a funny feeling filling her when their bodies meet. She’s sad her best friend has to go. She’s sad she has to walk back in for a theatrical production produced, directed by and starring her mother.
But is that all? Or is she lying to herself? Maybe this isn’t cool. Maybe she likes him more now. Maybe last night changes things.
I’ll see you.
He grabs his black Chuck Taylors.
I’ll see you.
She has a sick feeling that won’t be happening. Not in a long time. Wait. Maybe last night was bad for him. What if he’s just being nice? What if he’s just being… polite? She holds her little thing in her fist, tighter now. Her long nails poke her palm.
He’s walking down the stairs. She bends over the railings and smiles to herself when she sees him.
He doesn’t hear her.
She calls out louder this time. She bends lower. She’s ready to call his name again. And then it hits her. He hears her. He just doesn’t want to. Because he’s busy talking to Asian Barbie, arms over her shoulders.
This was meant to be in Sixes. But then the words just flowed out of my pen.
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