Prompt: Break Me Requested by Challenging The World. (Write an angsty drabble.)
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The scent lingers for days. The pillows smell of that light and sweet shampoo and the covers smell of sex and the combination of perfumes. The house still smells like the garlic that was cooked two nights before and if she tries hard enough, she can still smell the barely there scent left behind from the pasta the other woman burnt. She's purposely trying to hold on to each and every smell that was left behind from the last time she wasn't alone in the over-sized house. She clings to what is left behind like she wishes to hold on to the woman who left it all behind. If she tries hard enough, holds on long enough, she's sure it will be enough until the next time the other woman finds her way back to her.
It's a dangerous and painful game that they play. It hadn't stated out that way. It was stolen kisses and quick fucks when things became a little too much in the rest of their lives. Nobody was getting hurt then, but that didn't last long. They both wanted more, but only one of them was able to, or was willing to, give up the parts of them that prevented them from being together the way they truly wanted. Stolen kisses and quick fucks turned into a secret relationship that they thought they could handle even though one of them was married. They were wrong in so many ways. It was painful, and more times than not, they both found themselves desperately trying to get as much as they could from such little time together. Still, even though they were both being hurt, they couldn't stop themselves. They were addicted to the pain as much as they were addicted to the thrill.
The feeling of the other woman's touch is branded in her memory. She closes her eyes and she can still feel fingers slide across her skin, tracing and outlining her frame. In the night the only way she can fall asleep is if she pretends that her own hand is the one of the woman she wishes it belonged to. As she squeezes her eyes shut, touching her own body, she can't stop the tears that well up in her eyes, burning as she fights to hold them back. It's one of the many battles the usually strong woman loses each day, but she does nothing to stop it all from happening. She thinks of the touch and the feel of the other woman until she can fall asleep, dreaming dreams that do nothing to stop the growing ache and pain in her chest. It all torments her, but there's only one way out of it all and she's not willing to go down that path.
When the other woman finds her way back into her house and they share those few blissful hours she feels complete. It's not until she's lying awake, looking at the other woman's cell phone, waiting for it to ring that she feels the dark cloud forming over her again. He always calls her around the same time, wondering what time she'll be coming home. It's inevitable, so she doesn't know why she wishes that it won't ring for once. It's that look in those brown eyes that make her own well up with tears all over again as she closes her door a little after midnight, locking it after she's alone. She sinks to the floor, clinging to her knees as the tears spill from her eyes without her permission. She's never been so weak, so dependent, but she can't let this go. She can't let go of her; but then she remembers that she's not even hers to let go. She's his and always will be. Even with that in mind, she'll continue to cling to the lingering scents, remember the way the other woman kisses her, and she'll share her bed with her even though she knows it'll always end with her in tears, losing a little more of herself each time.