For My Eyes Only
Chapter One: Dirty Life
I sprinted the length of the alien hallway, my head reeling and spinning in five diverse directions. Nothing was recognizable, I was certain this wasn't even my home. In all my confusion and panic my toes painfully collided with the pointed edge of a wall that jutted out slightly. With some effort I swallowed a howl of pain, opting to bite my lip instead; I nearly had the mind to pull off my shoes to check if the impact was enough to cause any bleeding, yet I knew that was the erroneous choice. After the slightest delay, I stood at full height again, albeit an unimpressive height of only five foot two inches, and continued my race for the door.
My pursuit abruptly ended as I tackled, unintentionally, who I presumed to be the owner of the home—or apartment, as the case may be. To my horror, the primary and most blatant aspect of him I noticed besides his oddly styled, fiery red hair was his Turk suit. Even as he wore it in a sloppy, unkempt and careless fashion, it was all the same a Turk suit—anyone who wears a suit that messily wouldn't wear it just for kicks anyways. "Yo, what's the rush?" he sounded amused as the words rolled off his tongue smoothly, casually and he shoved a beer into my hands before he even asked if I would want it, which he never got around to anyways. "Making to commit suicide out my window?" The way he spoke of it so humorously was almost eerie, but I saw his point as I was about to veer out his window, which I assumed loomed over the city a couple of stories.
I straightened out and looked at him, then around, both expressions of equal quizzical nature. Seeming to absorb the questions formulating in my head, he replied with an answer, "You really did have too much to drink last night, huh, babe?" Or, what he deemed to be a passable answer. Truth be told, it didn't help whatsoever. For a moment my mind lingered on his choice of pet names, but I let the thought slide, I had more important matters at hand.
"We slept together?" For an odd reason, something I couldn't even explain why, my mind was torn between hoping it was false and hoping it was true. To be honest, he was handsome—seductive in his own sense and style—and I wouldn't blame myself for falling for his eloquence. But then again, he was a Turk and I was a slums girl, imagine bringing his happy ass home—wait, I was over planning everything, I've slept with and skipped out on countless men, he'd be no different. By the way he acted, he was the same way. Even then, if anyone found out, I was doomed.
With a chuckle he nodded, taking a swig from his beer, "Yeah, you just barely woke up, too. Must've really drained you." What a cocky bastard, thinking that just because I slept in until one in the afternoon means that was amazing sex. Of course, it'd be wonderful to know if it was, then maybe I wouldn't care so much.
As we shifted in our positions somewhat uncomfortably, he happened to chance a look at my right foot—the injured one—and pointed out, "Yo, you're bleeding, you know."
As I peered down at my own foot, I noticed the blood stains on my white-toed sock and sighed—well there goes that pair of socks. I nodded and walked back into the hallway, finding that there was a cramped bathroom attached to the one-bedroom apartment. The man didn't bother following, I only heard his feet padding across the flooring and retrieving my untouched beer bottle before sauntering back to whatever he was doing before.
Seeing as the bathroom was so small, there was less in it to rifle through and I found what I was looking for effortlessly. A couple of dabs at my foot with cleaning alcohol later and everything was set to go, though my foot still seemed quite damaged, the cuts the wall caused were quite large, unexpectedly enough.
As I washed the alcohol off my fingers, I glanced into the mirror, at first tempting myself to look again and, of course, I succumbed. The mirror reflected me as I remembered, on a bad hair day—that's called "sex hair", kids. Usually, my mildly lengthy dark hair was only the slightest unkempt, for visual effect—now it was like I was attacked by a dog. I did my best to straighten it out, with little success. With a sigh, I moved my gaze to my face. I must've sweated off all my makeup last night, or maybe it rubbed off on his pillowcase, where I awoke—drooling, too—earlier. My customary amount of eyeliner rimming my brown eyes was also gone. With a sigh I pondered on if the mysterious man I had slept with would mind if I took a quick shower.
Deciding that since he wasn't the best of all hosts, I invaded his hospitality and took a shower anyways, going as far as to borrow a pair of war-torn jeans—baggy and hanging loosely around my hips, a basic black t-shirt—surprisingly form-fitting as if it was the remnant of an ex-girlfriend, and even a borrowed a pair of socks.
He only seemed slightly surprised to witness me walking into his living room damp, in his clothing, with mine tucked underneath my arm. "Where's the laundry in this place?" I question, uninterested in his reaction.
"Downstairs, to the right, down the hall." Blunt, I admire that. He speaks nothing else, not even as I leave; maybe he's not as bad as I originally thought. Then again, I've really only known him—soberly—for half an hour and twenty minutes of that I was preoccupied with my bathing.
The laundry room is, thankfully, deserted. To my gratitude, everyone else seems to have better things to do and so I fish out my wallet, pay for the machine, and wash my clothes in peace. The low rumbling of the dryer is hypnotic and I focus my thoughts on it for a while until it ceases. I retrieve the heated clothes, crane my neck around doorway to peer around the corridors—barren as ever—before stripping and pulling on my clothes (and yes, I did wash my underwear) and walking into the man's apartment again, throwing his borrowed clothes on his bed and joining him on the sofa.
"What's your name," I inquire, halfway absorbed into the television program yet remaining aware of his answer.
"It's Reno," he offers and turns back to the television screen as well, his eyes having been distracted by my voice for just a moment. "And yours?"
"Zena," I volunteer in return, stretching against the couch and searching the room for my beer. He at least has the courtesy to leave it on the table, and so I pop off the top and take a swig—it's disgusting, but I'm thirsty and I don't have the sense to bother him or the energy to get it for myself.
We talk, chatting lightly about nothing in particular, dancing around the harsher subjects that we could've touched on.
And that's how it came to be.
Whenever I felt like it, I'd swing by for a visit, a quickie, or maybe dinner. We each had separate lives, I knew that. Once I almost stopped by when he had a guest over, a girl. I smelled perfume outside his door and hanging on the doorknob was the smallest ribbon of black made out of yarn, which became the sign. He'd loop it on there when he had company and I wouldn't come in.
Once we even lightly debuted the subject of the more personal aspects of our lifestyles. He knew I now had a boyfriend named Blaise like I knew he had a girlfriend named Yuffie—nothing serious, he assured me, just a slight step above his "usual". We both were acquainted with the "usual" because, no matter how much we would deny, he and I were frighteningly alike, hence the lack of regret on our secret lives.
Then there came the routine. Sunday evening I would pay him a visit, sometimes with a movie or dinner or just me and the clothes on my back—which would be removed shortly thereafter anyways.
In this way the relationship grew slightly more than we had originally intended, but it was only every Sunday night and I always vanished before he departed for work. We wouldn't be buying each other presents for the holidays or be caught taking each other out for dinner. No, we'd just meet for sex every week, and we were sharp enough to never get caught. He was Turk; I assumed it was his job.
He never visited my house, either, he hadn't the slightest idea as to where I lived and we were alright with that. That would be out of our safety zone, out of the way, and he wouldn't be comfortable with any of that, I knew that much.
Still, we never regretted our actions, probably because we had nothing but a boyfriend or, in Reno's case, a girlfriend to lose anyways. It was pleasurable, sleazy, and yet satisfying all at once. It wasn't as if I'd spend Valentine's Day with him, regardless of my status. It was our strict, unspoken law that any holiday was forbidden.
It was our fresh air from the confines of a semi-serious relationship. There were no constrictions; everything was about freedom and our choice to act as we did.
To be honest, I loved every minute of it.
Unlike the first day I had met him, I never grew wary about us being figured out and my reputation as a proud slums girl ruined. The chances of anyone I knew discovering me in his apartment were as unlikely as anything, maybe his aforementioned girlfriend Yuffie but the worst would be the end of her relationship with Reno and the continuation of our fun having.
Even once, as he strolled into the bakery I was employed at, we acted as total strangers, he even went as far as to flirt with me, asking me out for a drink. I politely declined, though I knew that Sunday we would definitely have a drink or two. Indeed we did drink, and he commented on how nice my legs and boobs looked in that uniform we were forced to wear. I had to admit, they flattered even the flattest and most unattractive woman.
It was months now and still we found no complaint in what we did and Yuffie and Blaise remained as oblivious as ever. Often times we'd remark on our high achievements of continuing our relationships with our boyfriend or girlfriend for so long.
So it shocked me when one morning as Reno stirred in his bed, switching on the lamplight residing on his beside table that I was disappointed that I had to leave. I, for once, desired to stay and watch Reno dress for work while I lay in bed, surveying him. He'd bitch about the upcoming day and insist, finally, that I get ready for work too—telling me that if he had to haul his ass to work, I would too.
I blamed it on the bitter cold outside and my unwillingness to face it, even as I showered and continued agonizing over how I was forced to depart and not stay to watch his morning habits. As I used his spare towel to dry myself after my shower, I imagined him standing in front of his mirror, shaving, and me seated on his closed toilet seat, watching with the ghost of a smile, just delighted to be able to admire him. The thought was silly, but somehow I suddenly wanted it, I suddenly wanted to watch him eat his morning breakfast and grumble at the newspaper and how the Turks were involved in it. Does he drink coffee? If he does, how does he take it?
Then I heard his voice call from the bedroom doorway, "Yo, I'm leaving, you better hope I don't find you here when I get back, I've got a date tonight." The ease in which he spoke about a date and me in the same sentence was spooky, similar to the time I had first really met him and his talk of suicide so casually—but that was just the way Reno was.
Half of me was tempted to prolong my stay but I knew that was a terrible idea and so as soon as I could, I pursued him out the door, towards my apartment to get my work uniform and then off to work it was.
The remainder of the day's thoughts was engaged by my feelings that morning. I was puzzled at the ironic change. Then I began to worry, did he ever feel the same way?
This will probably only be a twoshot if I decide to continue it, at the most three chapters. But I'd love the feedback first, tell me what you think.
I accept critiques, but keep your immature flames to yourself.