Author's Note: Thanks so much to Bridges, CineFille and JeSouhaite for giving this a read and encouraging me to post it. I'm usually more of a happy ending kind of gal, so this story is pretty much the most angsty thing I've ever written.
She's getting too used to this. It no longer surprises her to wake up in the middle of the night without him next to her, or to roll over in the morning only to find his pillow cool and unrumpled.
It's been too many nights that he's used early deliveries as an excuse to stay at the diner, and too many nights she's let him get away with it. She tries not to think about a time when he bought her a television so that they didn't need to spend nights apart. Now it doesn't seem to take much reason at all for them to be apart.
And the truth is, even when he's here, he's not fully here. He's distracted by events and obligation, and dealing with things the way he always has: alone. And though she understands what's happening, and why it's happening, it still hurts that their being together hasn't changed that about him.
She misses everything about him, the way his smile reached his eyes when she walked into the diner, the smell of his shampoo in the shower, the coffee brewing in her kitchen when she woke up, and most of all, she misses his touch.
She knows that they're both responsible for pulling away from each other, for the number of nights that their goodnights are punctuated by a quick kiss instead of something more, for the number of nights she falls asleep with her head on her pillow, in spite of his shoulder being right next to her.
It makes her want to remember the moments before, to try to recreate the times when they simply enjoyed being together. Those nights when they couldn't wait to get into bed with each other early, only to stay awake for hours.
She thinks that if she closes her eyes she might be able to imagine some of those moments, to feel the brush of his fingers across her skin or the warmth of his breath on her neck.
She slips her fingers along the neckline of her nightgown, feeling the material slide across her skin, allowing her fingers to tease the curve of her breast, letting her mind pretend the fingers are his. She's got her eyes squeezed shut, letting him trace her curves and circle her nipple. She lets him take the time he hasn't in so long, lips following fingers as they unfasten buttons and expose her skin to the cool air.
He continues to kiss and touch her, but then backs away for a moment, and whispers, "You're beautiful." Even after being together for so long, she can hear the awe in his voice, how lucky he feels to have her. He doesn't always use the same words. Sometimes it's "perfect," or "amazing," but there's always a touch of wonder in his eyes during these moments. It doesn't happen all the time, or every time, but often enough for her to notice that he hasn't whispered like that in weeks, months even. And with that, she squeezes her eyes more tightly closed, because with them closed, she can see him more clearly.
Her fingers continue their slow dance across her body and his imaginary lips follow, teasing and nipping at her skin. She can feel her legs opening, summoning his fingers, his mouth. She moves her fingers lower and can almost hear him moan at finding her aroused.
She tries to reach for him, to run her fingers across his skin, arouse him, but he playfully evades her attempts. This little escapade is all about her. She can almost hear his chuckles as he torments her, has her begging for release. He brings her to the precipice only to pull her back at the last possible moment, drawing out her torture as long as possible. She can feel tears of frustration as she cries out her need for him.
Her own fingers are dipping, swirling, and thrusting, tempting her ever closer. She can almost imagine him filling her. Almost.
But not quite.
She summons the memories, the scents and sounds. She can hear his low groans and answers with whimpers of her own. He thrusts faster and faster, until she is trembling and he is letting out one final moan.
She reaches to pull him closer, to feel the crush of his weight on top of her, to run her fingers across his sweat-slicked back. She strains to hear his gasping breaths against her shoulder.
But the rush of sensations that she knows she should be feeling is too complex for her brain to construct. She's reached a point past pretending, where the touches and sounds are fading, where the images are growing dark.
There's no point in deceiving herself any longer.
When she opens her eyes, he's not going to be there.
Fin