He is, quite simply, everything. The entire rest of the adult male population means nothing to her, except perhaps in their contrast.
“You’re leaving?” he asks, when he comes back from the bathroom and finds her dressed.
“Yes,” she answers, and considers explaining that she prefers to leave with no specific ending, so that she doesn’t experience the month-long desperation to return that she felt last time.
But she believes he knows, or understands, and chooses instead to say nothing. It’s always the better option for her.
Right in line with the nothing she likes to give when asked to repeat herself.
“What did you just say?” he asks, frequently.
And upon that type of examination, scarcely anything bears repeating.
Besides, she often feels that the more words she uses, the further she gets from telling the truth.
Today, in bed, he swung a leg over her torso and sat comfortably on her abdomen, looking down at her.
“I’m in the process of monogamizing,” he mentioned, watching her carefully. “In an attempt to dechaos my life.”
“I hope that goes horribly for you,” she responded, without thought.
It surprised him, her saying this.
And somehow that tickled her in a strange way, so that she turned her face to the wall to stifle a giggle.
He bent forward, open palms heavy on her shoulders.
“What’s so funny in there?” he asked, right up close to her ear.
She bit her lip to stop the laughter, and fell into the descent of additional words that made her less honest.
“I’m teasing, B. I just want you to be happy.”
It was such a rote statement, had no meaning.
And she didn’t even notice until he thrust it back on her.
“Do you?” he asked, a menacing quality to his voice as he adjusted his weight to push back into her.
“You just want me to be happy?” This time an exact mimic of her voice.
She closed her eyes. Tried to truly weigh the question as he breathed hot on her face, massaged perfectly the most lonely places inside her.
“Is that what my good girl wants?”
Slightly cruel now. Relentless. Damning in his sexiness.
“No,” she whispered, and felt the unpent freedom of truth.
That is what he does for her. Exposes her lies, heightens her existence.
He’s got the fortitude to match, but his brain is the razor’s edge.
And no, she doesn’t want him to be happy.
Who the fuck would he be to her then?
Life is twisted, gorgeous, and alive.
One thought on “2 hours, 9 minutes”
Or perhaps it would show her how little she meant to him, and she could perhaps find someone to whom she meant the world to?