Bittersweet

My eyes follow her around the room. Taking in her every movement, her every breathe. It's like every motion she makes, buffers the air, crashing wave after wave of her over me.

I watch as she brushes her hair, as she pulls it back into a loose hair tie. Thin tendrils of golden blonde hair falling down around her perfectly sculptured face. I can smell her shampoo; apples, despite her being on the other side of the room from me.

Or maybe it's coming from the pillow I've propped my elbow up on, so I can watch her.

The bed now feels cold. Earlier drops of perspiration having fallen to the bed, turning into ice as they land. Covering my sheets in a blanket of coolness that I can never remember being there before.

And I suddenly find myself wondering when it had gotten to the point of me practically begging her not to leave. But she does, like she always has done. Because we can't get caught. Because we're too afraid to be found.

But it's early. Earlier than it ever has been before. It hasn't even passed the witching hour yet. An ache in my chest forms, when I realise she getting ready to leave.

And instead of the gentle hours we used to spend deeply embedded between my sheets, instead of her sneaking out of my window at four in the morning, instead of her giving me that small half smile, like she always used to do she quickly kissed be before she left. I find myself staring at her back, as she pulls on her pants.

I recognise those pants. They aren't hers. Deeply blue with small rivers of sparkles weaving they're way down the seams on the legs. You can tell they fit the person they belonged to so well, they would seem like a second skin when they're wearing them.

But they aren't Buffy's pants. They're slightly loose around the waist, held up only by the extraordinary muscles, woven into tight cores beneath the skin of her ass. They bunch up and hang in ripples of fabric around her feet as she slips on a pair of boots.

Also not hers.

She slides on the baggy sweater; also fitted to the person they were bought for. Why isn't she wearing any of her own clothes?

And it hits me.

Because she left her own clothes on the floor of that motel room. Grabbing the clothes she's now wearing because they're comforting to her. They bring her closer to the owner of them, when she goes and performs what has now become her duty.

When did I become a pity fuck? I can remember not too long back, when I was the queen of the school. A mean hearted bitch with a fast mouth. And now, I seem to be second best, to everyone I end up with.

Sitting on the end of the bed, she bends down, her back to me, to tie the boots she borrowed. The muscles in her back are tightly strung, tense as if expecting an attack.

But I never say a word. I simply sit there, and watch her as she walks out. I see her in my minds eye as she goes out into the foyar, declining the offer for a drink from my mother, out the front door, and hitting the sidewalk.

I drag myself from the bed, holding the sheet to me as if a life line, as I go to the window and wait for the sound of the door shutting.

She hits the night as if she were meant to be a part of it. The darkness filtering through her hair, buffering her baggy top slightly, and filling her with the sense of the hunt.

I can never understand what that feels like.

But the dark haired woman, who's waiting underneath a tree on the other side of the road, she can understand. Because she feels it too. They live for the night, they belong to the night. They're a part of something I could never possibly understand. And obviously, in a life as short as theirs, they need to have all they can get. Even if that means surrendering to someone you would never have touched had it been real life.

I can taste bile rising my throat, swallowing it heavily and revelling in the bittersweet taste of betrayal.

I watch as Buffy walks down my path, crosses the road, and falls gratefully into the arms of her lover. Her real lover. An almost desperate hug, of people who know that tomorrow might never come for them. My eyes stare as they lean in to gently kiss each other.

With a passion that I have never felt. With an emotion that I will never get, from the blonde who at one time, saved me from the pit of despair I was teetering on the edge of.

I let the drape fall back into place, and lay down on my bed, staring up at the ceiling.

No, I might not have her. She might be in love with someone else. I may have been betrayed once again.

But I know, that I won't deny her tomorrow night. Or the night after that, or the night after that. I will let her keep tormenting me.

Because it's the only thing I have left.