A/N: This started with only a sentence. I just started writing, unsure of where I was going. I realized what I was doing once I hit the second paragraph. I won't tell you who the "speaker" is (you can probably guess who "he" is). I quite like the anonymity of it all. And, who knows, if this is well liked, I may be tempted to write a sequel of sorts.
He thinks himself better than I. His words are biting, his tongue and nature imperious and petulant. His every gesture and movement suggests that he considers himself superior to the world – to the human race as a whole. If he has genuine emotions, feelings, things like that, he would probably never dare let them show while in my presence. No, he would much rather sit in his leather chair, reclined as far back as possible, contemplating his entire existence, my existence, the universe's existence. He can be callous, he can be cold, he can be calculating.
He is a great many things, however. Bright, wise, patient, quiet, unintentionally sweet and understanding, generous to boot. He has an air about him – one that forces most women into some sort of sexual tizzy. An air that is gentle, kind and overwhelming.
He polluted my world, my air, and forced in his own. Hanging above my head is an obscene curtain of smog, diluting the crisp, fresh air I usually carry around with me – my mind, my flesh, my being. He charged into my life, responding to the red cape I had inadvertently shaken and dropped and my side. He was unexpected, I was unprepared.
It had started out innocently – or what we can call innocent these days. A tantalizing brush of the arm, an electric gaze, a zealous argument. That was all we needed. Soon we were meeting in the most obscure of places – a hidden supply closet that had long been forgotten on the lower levels, abandoned and far away hospital rooms, a frozen and murky morgue. Afterward it was as though I didn't exist.
He'll pass me by in the hallway, raise his chin and pull his shoulders back, adjusting his stature; it is a sign of superiority, I assume. More importantly, it is infuriating. He is infuriating. I go mad at the sight of him. His neat chestnut hair, his pressed Oxford shirt and posh tie, his pleated twill pants and perfectly polished leather shoes, his cocoa eyes which I most fervently refuse to meet. They're whirlpools, his eyes – sucking me in slowly and rapturously.
There are moments, though, where I control our actions. I beguile him, he says, bewitch him and force him to lose all reason – he is much too impassioned for reason. I can see the blazing fire in his eyes – his chocolate eyes burning at the sight of me – the heat in his face, his cheeks and ears dark crimson with anticipation. His hands shake and he apologizes meekly, his superiority nothing but a faint memory. It's then that I like him most. He rids himself of his subtle arrogance, his artificial aloofness, his continual ennui. He becomes a man in those moments; forceful and gentle, excitable and patient. It's pure bliss to be with him, beside him, touching him, breathing in his soft, musky scent.
And afterward, when we see each other next, I see his pink, plump lips curve into the most marvelous smile. There's a light, then, emanating from him. His russet eyes shine at me, and I can feel my stomach grumble, my heart patter and my chest heave. He will intentionally drop whatever it he has in his hand at the time, or "accidentally" bump into me, or even going so far as to claim he needs me for a consult. All this to be close to me, to let me bask in his light and heat, to share his obvious elation over our small excursions. The passersby are none the wiser, and these glorious moments, seldom as they are, keep me coming back to him – an everyday passenger of a train headed nowhere.
It's a perpetual, downhill train and neither of us can get off (it's moving far too quickly and swerving far too much). But I daresay that neither of us wants to.
A/N: If you didn't like it, don't tell me. Let me go on blissfully ignorant of any personal faults. If you enjoyed, shout it from the rooftops until your voice goes hoarse. …yeah.
Naturally, I won't expect a response. (And I'm not "just saying that." Promise.) If you did like it, feel free to tell me. If you didn't, feel free to tell me. I like constructive criticism. It forces me to reexamine my life in its entirety. Heh.