don't own, blah blah blah
I'm not sure where this came from, or whether it's going to go anywhere. Reviews are, of course, much appreciated.
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It's cold outside, freezing, and he knows this because he saw the neon sign outside the bank displaying the time and temperature: 11:57 pm, 19 degrees Fahrenheit but he's been walking a few blocks and is half in the bag anyway and hardly notices.
"I could have been sleeping," she says as she opens the door, although it's clear that she's been awake: there's a record on upstairs and a kitchen light is on. There's no annoyance in her voice, really, but he shuts his eyes for a beat, suddenly a little dizzy.
"Sorry." he says, after a moment.
She turns around and heads back toward the stair case.
"I wasn't sleeping, of course," she says, without turning around.
He follows her silently, watching her hips sway slightly as she walks up the stairs. She motions for him to sit down on an armchair chair in the library; the light is soft and he is at least sober enough to wonder who still owns a candelabra, and to laugh quietly to himself at that fact. There is a bottle of Glenlivet on the coffee table and a half empty glass on the windowsill; she takes another crystal lowball glass from a tray in the corner and pours it halfway for him. On the windowsill there is a petite cut crystal ice bucket to match the glasses. She leans down to see whether the tongs have fallen on the floor but finds nothing before settling for the use of her hand to drop two ice cubes into his glass. She sets it down within his reach on the table.
"Thanks," he murmurs.
She crosses her bare legs delicately across the plush nook and cracks the window open a few inches before pulling a cigarette from a case and lighting it for herself.
"What are you doing here, Bobby?" she asks, and it's not tender but it's not really harsh either. She sips her scotch and he watches her inhale and slowly exhale smoke towards the window. She's wearing a dark grey cotton slip and a dark red cardigan and the cool air raises goosebumps on her pale skin.
"I-I don't know." he replies, honestly, and sips his scotch.
They're silent a little longer before Vera stands up.
"Come on," she says.
He follows her down a hallway; there are portraits on the wall and a long thin rug over the hardwood floor. They're passing rooms he's never seen before, and finally she stops and turns toward a door left ajar, and uses her toe to push it open, hands busy with her drink and her cigarette. She pulls the string on a lamp and it lights up the room too quickly for either of their tastes; in unison they pull back and squint before she turns it back off and lets her eyes adjust again to the dark. It's a bathroom, but he's never seen it before; he assumes it's hers and notices it's much bigger than the one on the first floor. Light from a streetlamp flows in through two largish windows above a claw foot tub, and after a moment they can both see well enough to maneuver, although he has no idea what they're doing.
She opens a cabinet and pulls out a little box before sitting up on the counter over the sink at her vanity and looks back up at him.
"You're bleeding." she says, and turns slightly to wet a towel in the sink. Her cigarette has been extinguished but smoke hangs in the air, creating a haze in the bluish light from the window. "Come over here."
He approaches her and she scoots forward on the counter so their eyes meet and he can fit between her legs. They're brushing his sides, and her hair is falling over her shoulders, and there's some kind of complicated looking embroidery on the trim of her slip, which is thinner than he'd noticed before, and her face is right there; he's closer than he ever remembers being to it, and suddenly he feels dizzy again and takes a step back, inhaling a little too sharply for it to pass unnoticed.
"Calm down," is all she says, and is delicately pawing through her first aid kit. He steps forward again and she raises her hand to dab the cut on his cheek with the towel. He flinches and she lays her free hand on his other cheek to keep him in place. "Run into any fists today?"
He cocks his head and glares like ha ha ha and she dabs the cut again before putting the rag down on the counter and lifting something out of a smaller tin inside the first aid kit. She closes her hand around it before he can see it then reaches into the pocket of her sweater to pull out a box of matches. He's standing so still that he can hear his own heart beating, and his mouth falls open a little when she lifts her hand and places a joint between her lips.
"You know I-" he stutters, "this isn't-"
"Ask yourself," she says softly, striking a wooden match and holding in the air a moment, "Could it be any worse?" She lights the joint and inhales deeply, tossing the match into the sink and lifting her left foot to let her calf stroke the back of his knee, pulling him in closer. She lays a hand on his neck and leans in, then presses her lips to his and he parts them, letting her blow the smoke slowly into his mouth. He shuts his eyes and inhales, unconsciously raising a hand to her thigh. They're silent a moment, and he coughs a little as she inhales again and hands him the joint.
Her legs are loosely wrapped around his waist now, and his free hand still rests on her thigh. The joint goes out after they each have taken another hit and still neither of them has spoken; Bobby feels warmer; the air is thick with pot smoke and he blinks with heavy lids a few times, not shifting his gaze from Vera. She strokes the back of his leg with her own bare foot and he rests his other hand on her other thigh, and lets his hand wander up, fingering the embroidered trim a moment before moving under the fabric. He lets his eyes fall closed and hungrily presses his lips against hers; she is more receptive than he expects she would be, and runs her nails gently along his neck, sending shivers down his spine.
He lifts her up and carries her into the bedroom and throws clumsily onto the bed. They have satisfying and aggressive if not slightly detached sex and when he wakes up she's still there but they aren't touching. He's not sure if she cares about him yet, or if she will care about him at all, or if this is just how she cares about people. Sometimes(although not often) he doesn't mind not knowing right away.