(I Never Was) Your Biggest Chance
-------------------------------------------------------------------
I don't own Rent. I don't even rent Rent. That belongs to Mr. Larson.
I'm just borrowing his characters for my story. If you want to use
them, you'll have to talk to someone else
-------------------------------------------------------------------
He looked down at the girl next to him in shock. What had he done?
She was beautiful. No doubts about that. Her dark hair sprawled across
the pillow, smelling faintly of lilacs. He had always imagined her
hair smelling that way...
Maybe he had taken advantage of her. Everyone had been so fragile at
the funeral.
They had held on to each other, him disturbingly stoic, her crying
pitifully. Not one was supposed to die now. They were all immortal,
despite what they said about diseases. They couldn't die, and yet he
was gone.
Emotions ran high at the life cafe, after the funeral. They all got
dunk on shots of hard liquor, before running out on the bill, as they
were wont to do.
It had been so funny, racing down the streets, it was almost like no
one had died. She had clung to him, laughing hysterically, and tossing
her long, lovely hair back and forth, before pulling him into an ally
and kissing him as the others all raced by.
It was electric. It was heroin. He was addicted to her kiss. Somehow,
in rapture and lust and somewhat of a drunken haze, they had made it
back to his bed.
What had happened then, he remembered in bits and pieces. Her nails
raked down his back, leaving red trails on his skin. The smell of
lilacs and liquor and the feeling of need. Words spoken in different
languages, her whispers in French or Spanish or Japanese words
tickling his mind in the height of passion. It was like a drunken,
sick movie montage. Did she even remember who he was?
He allowed himself to trace her jaw line with a finger, pushing an
errant strand of hair back from her mouth. Those lips, that tongue. He
had never felt like that before, and now he just felt dirty.
He propped himself on an elbow, silencing a groan and the pain of a
hangover came rushing to his temples. Gods. He made his was out of the
rooms, picking his boxers up off the floor. Suddenly, he felt modest.
The shower was deceptively warm, the comforting water coursing over
his rough skin. How wrong was this? All he could think of was what to
say when she got up. "Good morning, have some coffee, we fucked."
Right.
He turned the water off, at least feeling clean on the outside
She was awake when he got back to the bedroom, sitting up in bed and
rubbing her eyes. He checked the gray towel wrapped around his hips,
his modesty retuning now that she was awake.
He scooped up a t-shirt off the floor, and tossed it at her,
forgetting to laugh when it draped it's self across her head. She
covered herself carefully, not moving from the bed. She seemed to be
in some sort of shock.
"A shower helps," he offered, not moving from the doorway.
"We.. Oh, god," she stumbled over the words, tears forming at the
corner of her eyes.
"Don't cry. No one needs to know about us. You get dressed and go home
and we'll pretend this never happened, okay?"
She nodded. "Is he..?"
The man nodded. "He is. We came here after his-"
She choked, turning away. He picked up her pants, draped over a lamp,
and her bra from the floor. "Here," he told her, handing them to her.
"We're okay."
She dressed quickly, taking her clothing to the bathroom, while he
dressed in his room. He was sitting on the table as she turned to
leave.
"I'm sorry," she said, kissing him on the cheek. Then she walked out
of the loft, pulling the door securely closed behind her.
"Me too," the filmmaker whispered and the Latina's retreating form. "Me
too."
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Ach, I know, Mark/Mimi, I'm sorry. I wrote this Thursday in French,
the class where I found out about the WTC and the Pentagon. I live
really close to DC, but I and my loved ones are okay. I hope all of
you out there are, too. My thoughts are with you.
Thanks to Rachael, my beta baby, and to Adam (mawahahaha) who has been
so strong for me.
Be well, be safe, and don't be afraid. Together, we are strong.
~Karsa, who has a sign that says "I AM NOT AFRAID, 9-11-01" in her car
window. Honk and wave.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
I don't own Rent. I don't even rent Rent. That belongs to Mr. Larson.
I'm just borrowing his characters for my story. If you want to use
them, you'll have to talk to someone else
-------------------------------------------------------------------
He looked down at the girl next to him in shock. What had he done?
She was beautiful. No doubts about that. Her dark hair sprawled across
the pillow, smelling faintly of lilacs. He had always imagined her
hair smelling that way...
Maybe he had taken advantage of her. Everyone had been so fragile at
the funeral.
They had held on to each other, him disturbingly stoic, her crying
pitifully. Not one was supposed to die now. They were all immortal,
despite what they said about diseases. They couldn't die, and yet he
was gone.
Emotions ran high at the life cafe, after the funeral. They all got
dunk on shots of hard liquor, before running out on the bill, as they
were wont to do.
It had been so funny, racing down the streets, it was almost like no
one had died. She had clung to him, laughing hysterically, and tossing
her long, lovely hair back and forth, before pulling him into an ally
and kissing him as the others all raced by.
It was electric. It was heroin. He was addicted to her kiss. Somehow,
in rapture and lust and somewhat of a drunken haze, they had made it
back to his bed.
What had happened then, he remembered in bits and pieces. Her nails
raked down his back, leaving red trails on his skin. The smell of
lilacs and liquor and the feeling of need. Words spoken in different
languages, her whispers in French or Spanish or Japanese words
tickling his mind in the height of passion. It was like a drunken,
sick movie montage. Did she even remember who he was?
He allowed himself to trace her jaw line with a finger, pushing an
errant strand of hair back from her mouth. Those lips, that tongue. He
had never felt like that before, and now he just felt dirty.
He propped himself on an elbow, silencing a groan and the pain of a
hangover came rushing to his temples. Gods. He made his was out of the
rooms, picking his boxers up off the floor. Suddenly, he felt modest.
The shower was deceptively warm, the comforting water coursing over
his rough skin. How wrong was this? All he could think of was what to
say when she got up. "Good morning, have some coffee, we fucked."
Right.
He turned the water off, at least feeling clean on the outside
She was awake when he got back to the bedroom, sitting up in bed and
rubbing her eyes. He checked the gray towel wrapped around his hips,
his modesty retuning now that she was awake.
He scooped up a t-shirt off the floor, and tossed it at her,
forgetting to laugh when it draped it's self across her head. She
covered herself carefully, not moving from the bed. She seemed to be
in some sort of shock.
"A shower helps," he offered, not moving from the doorway.
"We.. Oh, god," she stumbled over the words, tears forming at the
corner of her eyes.
"Don't cry. No one needs to know about us. You get dressed and go home
and we'll pretend this never happened, okay?"
She nodded. "Is he..?"
The man nodded. "He is. We came here after his-"
She choked, turning away. He picked up her pants, draped over a lamp,
and her bra from the floor. "Here," he told her, handing them to her.
"We're okay."
She dressed quickly, taking her clothing to the bathroom, while he
dressed in his room. He was sitting on the table as she turned to
leave.
"I'm sorry," she said, kissing him on the cheek. Then she walked out
of the loft, pulling the door securely closed behind her.
"Me too," the filmmaker whispered and the Latina's retreating form. "Me
too."
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Ach, I know, Mark/Mimi, I'm sorry. I wrote this Thursday in French,
the class where I found out about the WTC and the Pentagon. I live
really close to DC, but I and my loved ones are okay. I hope all of
you out there are, too. My thoughts are with you.
Thanks to Rachael, my beta baby, and to Adam (mawahahaha) who has been
so strong for me.
Be well, be safe, and don't be afraid. Together, we are strong.
~Karsa, who has a sign that says "I AM NOT AFRAID, 9-11-01" in her car
window. Honk and wave.