Something a bit different from me... a bit melancholy I guess!
This has got to die.
This has got to stop.
This has got to lie down, with someone else on top.
Damaged
She wonders why she does it. It's been going on for years. Like sticking a hot knife into an already open wound. Keep crawling back for more, or sneaking.
At precise moments, timed to coincide with Sundays spent alone watching the afternoon movie, she mulls it over. Her brain stemming out to dwell on the fact it could be love and that she does it hoping one day he'll roll over and confess it's always been her and it will be forever.
This is just childish. And she knows better.
Truth is they screw around every now and then because it feels good. In so many ways they aren't compatible but in this one respect they're attuned.
She likes older men, usually facial hair and a father-like complex. Seeking Daddy still? Another hurdle she'd rather dive over than dwell on. She likes men who read the papers on Sundays and the odd glass of Merlot is enough in the name of alcohol. She likes faithfulness... though in a way she's always stumbled on that particular boundary herself.
Sometimes, she catches herself watching him wondering if having her, (at the snap of his fingers is a bit much but she could see how the statement could be applied,) is just a power-thing. Reminding himself he's still on top and in control and can have any woman he wants. Even her. Stoic. Respectable.
And so it is, she finds herself outside of his flat parking her car behind his. Following him inside and barely inside the door before they're stripping the other naked and he has her up against the wall in the dark.
It's never usually about kissing and platitudes. Sentiments are wasted. It's about the urgency and fulfilment. That raw, animalistic need they both have to consume the other. So in tune. In sync. It used to scare her. How well he knew her. How well she knows him. How their bodies fit together and respond to the other as easily as a stream trickling over loose rocks.
Two, three times they'll do it. She doesn't label it. The words all seem wrong. Screwing around, fucking, sex, definitely not making love, though late at night it can be slow and sensual.
She'll creep out come dawn and leave him to wake alone and they'll both forget it happened and not say a word.
She remembers the first time. Back when she was younger and hurt and he healed her with sex. It's gone from there. Each and every time the other is damaged these clandestine meetings occur.
Each and every time she walks away feeling a little more grey than she did before she went home with him. It isn't like her to be so melancholy. It isn't like her to just have sex without attachment.
Deep down she knows it isn't. It can't be that simple. Nothing Robbie ever does it simple.
Still, she can't escape the fact it's the best sex she's ever had and despite the fact they never talk of it or discuss a possible relationship she occasionally lies in his arms listening to his heart beat slow as he drifts into sleep and wonders...
She knows it never can be. They're both too damaged to make it work. And really she should stop.
This should stop.
