prose
my one and only foray into the world of prose. there may be more later, depending on my future adventures.
night #1
Bunched up around my thighs the gingham dress was a sticky double skin. It was not intended for close nights like these, though in fact I had been quite cool earlier when walking, the breeze licking across my knees in a familiar way. But now it trapped my thick heat close, and because I didn't want to place my skin to his again, I tugged the dress a little higher and widened my legs a little more, hoping he was asleep and not able to see a second invitation in my parted thighs.
Even were he not so drunk, and had the juices been working as they might have done normally, I doubt there would have been a better performance between us. He had yet to say my name correctly, and this I considered too important to forgive. It was the reason I had stifled his name in my mouth earlier; a petty revenge, but necessary.
I was not here tonight because of luck, or the other extremity of detailed planning. In fact, before we settled upon his bed I didn't know how he saw me, or even if he thought much about me.
Laying with my arm wrapped around the towel that supported my head (only one pillow, and it had become solely his in the last hour), I tried to believe that he had been considerate, stroking my belly, holding my hand with his thumb on my wrist, laying his cheek to mine and claiming me with soothing low breath, cupping the top of my head so it wouldn't hit the wall when he began his last violent rhythm. But then I have always been a cynic, and as much as I desired romance, nothing could alter the fact that , compelled to kiss his shoulder and curl across his chest, I instead turned my head away and fell into a separate sleep.
It was not regrettable, it had been pleasant, but not in the way that I had hoped. The swivel in his hips had been something new, not a thing remembered, anyway, but also not the be all and end all of the evening. It saddened me to realize that the end of the evening had come when he had opened his door and led me inside, so when he woke me from a supposed sleep a few hours later I did not speak or ask for a ride home, though I took it when offered. I wished for some excuse now, that I could blame this one on a drunken stupor or a simple lapse in judgement, but I would be given no such excuses.
I gathered myself, feeling the cold hardness of morning, remembering the feeling from many hours before and wishing now that i had kissed his shoulder, laid my skin to his, something to change the fact of how I was now broken and that I wasn't still in his bed and kissing him. Then again, the difference might not have been much, so I held my words inside and didn't offend us both with platitudes. It was done, his shoulder had not been kissed, and I was walking to my door pretending not to see him wave and hoping he would not call out something nice or silly, for I was still endeared to him and might have gone back had he asked. But he didn't, and I began to look forward to sleeping without him, noticing that my heat smelled different somehow, thinner and less sure of its direction, as I dropped my dress to the floor and lay on my bed, skin to skin with myself. |
