She's Good at Routine
Something
like beer and cigarettes swirls in her mouth. He doesn't smoke, she
thinks, so why does he taste like tobacco? When his tongue slides
against hers a second time, she doesn't care about the taste - just
the want and the need for more and the nameless something that
courses through her body like electricity.
She pulls back from
him, his lips are swollen and red and wet and she can't remember how
it happened. But it did and she doesn't mind. She knows it can't
happen again.
She greets the ache in her chest with a fuck you.
She wakes in the morning, hungover and pissed off.
The answering machine beeps and tells her she has seven messages. She
doesn't remember the phone ringing.
The seventh is from him. She
plays it and replays it and calls him back but doesn't talk. He knows
its her and they sit in silence.
Later, after work (as usual),
he goes back to her place again, and this time she allows herself to
moan as his jaw grinds against hers, and his lips tease her
neck.
Something that sounds like El, fuck escapes her
mouth, and she catches his lips with hers, and then it's all about
tongues and need and hands and vibrations and that warm pressure
pressing into her thigh.
Afterwards he briefly mentions something about what does this mean but they really don't care and so they do it again.
End.