snapshot

“I’ll never spend the night,” she told you from the beginning.

“I’d avoid making commitments to never, if I were you.”

That was two or three months ago.

Now she sits on the edge of your bed, putting on her stockings, talking nonstop about matters of zero consequence. An attempt to smooth over the fact that she is leaving in the dark. Again.

She sounds idiotic, inane. You have honestly never met someone worse at small talk.

(He is leaning against his closed bedroom door, arms crossed, pouting. He’s strikingly beautiful when he’s angry.)

She looks at you. Smiles.

“I guess that’s it, then.” She pats her own knees and stands.

She juts out a hip. Slides her open palm slowly along it.

“Thank you for having me, ” she says, thinking you will find it cute.

Sometimes she gets like this. Kind of nervous and light. You can tell by her gently-caving shoulders that she’s craving your approval.

You scowl.

“Do you want some money?” you ask her coldly.

It is a cruel thing to say, and you are surprised that you said it.

You meant to hold that card for later.

A halting awareness passes across her face as she registers the words.

But as is true of anything thrown with poor aim,  your invective misses its target.

“Would you mind?” she asks coyly.

“What?”

“Would you mind if I took some money? How much do you have?”

She’s bluffing of course. And damn if she doesn’t get a reluctant smirk out of you.

She takes three steps to close the distance between your bodies. Rests her forehead on your chest. The crown of her soft hair catches in the stubble on your chin. 

“Move your big, dumb body away from the door,” she says quietly. “It’s time for me to go.”

So you do. And she does.

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