1 week ago. Tue 12 Feb 2019 03:17:36 AM IST
There are thoughts that come to me only when it's late at night and I should be asleep. The kind of things I think about when I'm laid next to someone else.
Tonight isn't much different from any other tryst. My fingertips brush gently at the slender form pressed against my torso. She's sleeping. To be expected, really. She was always the type to fall asleep unceremoniously. Inhale deeply; exhale slowly. Make sure not to wake her because she has a tendency to be grumpy. I smile. She is my princess. At least, she is for tonight.
I should be asleep. But the pattering of drizzle against the window keeps me up. I don't know why. I don't know why I'm looking for a reason. The truth is, I almost never sleep. Inhale deeply; exhale slowly. It's safe to move now. I think. She won't miss me or, at least, she'll never admit to missing me. Come morning, she'll pretend tonight never happened. That's fine. There's little difference between something kept private and something kept secret. We'll each make of tonight what we will. I can't change that.
Perhaps I should feel bad about leaving her in bed. Nights can be lonely, though. In fact, they almost always are. Being in bed with someone else doesn't change that. She's found her comfort so I can only try to find mine. It isn't next to her, that much is apparent. It's not in cleaning myself in the shower and standing under a spray of scalding hot water until I feel something. Inhale deeply; exhale slowly. I should move now. I think. I should be doing something, even if I don't know what that something is.
She's still asleep and the rain is getting heavier. The sound of it blankets the world and drowns out the sound of her gentle breathing. I suppose I am annoyed by that. Still, I can't change the rain. I can walk over to the window and look out at the world, distorted by the droplets against the cold glass. It means...absolutely nothing. But these are the kinds of thoughts that come to me late at night.
Inhale deeply; exhale slowly. I don't know why I picked up smoking. Maybe it was an act of defiance. Not against society, but against my better nature. No. Not against my nature. Smoking was always in my nature, I needed to accept that. I remember a line: 'A man smokes when he's figured out the world'. I smile. Smoking does kill, after all.
I can see her out of the corner of my eye. She's stood in the doorway, leaning against it. I can tell she's debating whether or not she should approach me. I did, of course, leave her in bed. I did come to the other side of the house to sit alone and smoke. Maybe she's telling herself that I did it out of consideration for her. She wasn't the type to smoke, after all. It wasn't in her favor.
I glance at her. The look...it means nothing. But it does wash away her insecurities. It makes her feel desired and how could she not feel desired? She is a stunning display in her nakedness. She is beautiful, certainly. Certainly. Certainly more beautiful a woman than I deserve. The lighting is perfect as she approaches me. It's dim. It shows me only what I want to see. It allows me to truly appreciate how perfectly imperfect she is. It allows me to forget that in all the years I've known her, she still refuses to tell me her name.
The lighting is perfect.
There are so many things I've...figured out about her. She's lonely. She is insecure. She's scared because she's never managed to hold on to anything. She's lost a lot in life. She is a loser. Like me. But she plays her position well. She takes her place and I know what she wants. Even if her touch is soft, she can't help but rake her fingernails against my skin. She knows I like that, though. She does a lot of things because she knows I like it. Her lips at the base of my cock; the feeling of her hot breath as she gasps and moans between my thighs; the sound of her taking me in her mouth and nursing my manhood into a steely menace. I let the cigarette burn itself out in the ashtray next to me. Even I have enough common sense to exchange one vice for another.
Fingers on my forearms, she pulls herself up. She mounts me. She claims ownership of me. My mouth on her breast, she wraps her arms around my head and holds me to her bosom. She wants to save me. We both know she can't. Still, she moans when I suck on that sensitive bit of skin at the side of her neck. My hands move to her backside and my fingers reach towards her centre. I spread her apart and I know it makes her sex ache. She impales herself on me. Slowly. Savouring every inch until she's at her limit. Her lips meet mine and I can taste my salt on her tongue, just as she can taste the smoke on mine.
Life and death. That's the imagery here. I shouldn't have to point that out, but I feel like I need to.
She moans. The tone of her voice has long been ruined for me. She thinks it's boring. She thinks my accent is exotic. She could never understand why I thought the sound of her voice was so beautiful. It's the same way that she could have spent all these years trying to tell my things about her and I still refuse to listen. Even in this moment, I won't hear what she's trying to say. I know this but it won't change, no matter how hard I try. I want to listen to her moaning but all I can hear is the rain.
Afterwards she lays on me. Her body is slick with sweat and she smells...divine. She's saying something. "I hate the rain," she says. My hand moves down her body. It's graced with the most subtle curves. Two thousand years ago, men would have killed for her. Today she is nothing.
My thumb strokes her thigh and brushes against the tight knot of skin at the back of her knee. It was something that happened years ago. Something I wasn't around for. Something that took place between the time where she left me a girl, and returned to me a woman. It was something I couldn't change. It was what woke her tonight, and I suppose, in a way, I was grateful for it. "I like the rain," I say.
"If it kept raining like this," I say, "then we could be together forever."
She sits up, putting her weight on me properly. "Really?" She gives me the most incredulous look. "I've told you to stop being so dramatic. It's weird. Nobody talks like that."
"I talk like that," I laugh. I know she's right. I reach for her and pull her against my chest where she rests her head on my shoulder. "I don't mind the rain, then. Is that better?"
I can tell she's smiling as she kisses me at the side of the neck. She's saying something that can only barely be heard above the rain. She says, "I don't mind you either."