is it a sin that i love the bonus tracks more than i love you?
miraa.
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it's the morning after, and he is doing nothing but listening to his mp3 player like an idiot.
large circles clasp at his ears, the cables extending from them shivering like leaves as his head rocks back and forth to the beat, his foot tapping alternatively like that of a fucking rabbit-in-wonderland-who-is-late-for-everything-in-life.
"oi, can you stop that..." the sunlight persists shining in my eyes, and i try to rub it out with the back of my hand. the mattress is still quivering from his activity, and without really looking, my arm shoots out and i grab his shoulder tightly.
"bastard, stop it."
"eh, what did you say?" he slips one circle off his ear and smiles at me innocently.
"at least get dressed first, will you?"
"sure thing, sure thing." he kneels down on the floor and searches for his clothes. "i think some of my stuff ended up under the bed..."
it was a mistake, sleeping with him. i can't excuse the mood. i can't even excuse the alcohol, because as much as i wish the replay in my mind would involve large swigs of liquor, there were none. it was just us. simple. it was just us to blame.
he's found his boxers and slipped them on, the shirt is flung loosely on his shoulders next and he quickly zips up his pants. i reach over to the bedside table, lazily flick open my new pack of marlboros, and pop one in my mouth.
"hey, got a light?"
buttoning up his white dress shirt (which looks so dirty to me in the morning light with its imaginary stains), he frowns at me. "you're gonna smoke in the morning? it ain't good for your health, you know."
"i can do whatever the fuck i want. seen my lighter?"
"no."
"goddamn."
i crawl out of the sheets and land half-assed on my feet. wobble, i grab the bed for support. "is it under the bed?" i ask.
"no."
"che." i spit out the cig, and it flies across the room in a perfect arc, landing on the kitchen tile. the perks of living in a studio apartment - you can cross over from the carpet to the tile anytime you want, you know? sometimes you're just in that mood. today i was in the mood for tile. the red (his favorite color, i might add) dilapidated fuzz disappears under my feet and soon my soles hit the cold firm marble (how the hell did i get marble in a small, shitty place like this anyway?) in a steady rhythm that reminds me of the beat he rocked his head to.
"you want a beer?" i shout across the room.
"no. you can't smoke in the morning so you drink?"
i shrug. "i don't see why not. never too early to drink." i swing the refrigerator door open and the cool air hits me like a heaviness of sins. "aw shit."
"what?"
the empty contents stare back at me glumly. "nothing."
he must've glanced over, because he says, "you want me to go grocery shopping for you?"
"no, 's fine."
"you sure?"
"yeah, i'm sure."
he laughed. "i'm really not sure how you take care of yourself half the time."
"look i'm 23, man, i can do whatever the hell i want." don't try to be the mother i lost fifteen years ago to a cheap trick by my father.
i look back over and he's fully dressed, straightening and adjusting his tie to the point that i think he might choke himself. tightening the noose - wait, hold one a minute, don't go associating everything with death either just because your job predominately deals with it and you see it every day. i grimaced as he patted down his pants.
"what are you looking at me for?"
"nothing," i say.
"really? nothing on my face or anything?"
"your goddamned face looks fine."
he smiles innocently again. "you might want to get dressed too," he informs me.
"yeah, maybe later," i say. i walk over to the carpet-tile boundary, toes delicately balancing along the crack. i must have borderline insanity, because i say, "you leaving?"even though i know [it will break his heart] [it's a forbidden subject] [i don't want him to leave] he loves me more than he loves himself.
"yeah." he approaches me with unsteadiness and rests his calloused hands on my shoulders, unable to say what he wants to.
"i'm not a picket fence of emotion, you know."
"what?"
"make your point and go."
he gives me the look of a lost dog but abruptly pulls me into an embrace anyway, my bare chest and legs rubbing like dry sandpaper against his silk suit. the skin i was so familiar with last night is now separated from me by the thin margin of Armani, bodies we paid nothing but blood and tears for, a suit paid for by our blood money.
then, just when i think i can hold on a little longer, he lets go and pushes my shoulders back. the hands i held and whispered to (so dearly last night) dig into his pants pocket and retrieve something. "your lighter," he announces with an open palm.
i take a few steps back onto the tile. "...you're an idiot."
"sorry."
"if you wanted someone to go with you, you could've just said so."
"you know me. stupid grand thoughts of honor. i'll never change. just take it."
my fingers lift it from his tremblng hands. "i'll see you around."
he nods. "see you." he leaves and doesn't leave much silence behind. the clasp on the door is still swinging and clanking against the wood a few minutes later.
i'm just in that mood today, for tile, its coldness and hardness escaping my heart, and i don't particularly care for heat either. i eye my discarded cigarette a ways off, and i pick it up, dusting it off. just as the flame is about to hit nicotine, i see a hot mess of circles and cables on the bed. he had left his headphones and mp3 player.
i smirk and smoke escapes in a brief sigh as the tip of the cigarette dissolves into embers. "you really are an idiot."
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fin
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a/n: it's been revised! i finally had the balls to look it over and found several mistakes. hopefully it makes sense now. also i apologize in advance to anyone who is disturbed by my lack of capitals and grammatical correctness, because i laugh in the face of grammar and am also a lazy bum.
another note: the stuff in brackets is supposed to be crossed out, but because fanfiction dot net is such an asshole, it wouldn't let me do so, so i settled for brackets instead.