Just a little something I whipped up in my sleepless, vacation hours. I watched the kiss in the bar and was inspired.
I still own nothing. This is where Santa comes in.
The kiss is soft, almost cruel in it's fragility. You can taste the alcohol on her breath. She had been leaning, but you had welcomed it. You had seen the choice made in her eyes and let her come to you. You hadn't leaned, except maybe put a fraction more of your weight on your elbows; that would have been too committal, too binding. Later, you can blame this on her.
It only lasts a second, but that second seems to spin on into infinity. Millions of scenarios run through your head, although you only latch onto a few of them. In the first one, you take her back to the house, or go back to her hotel. No, she deserves so much better than that. This woman isn't an easy screw and nothing else. (Looking back on this moment later, you'll see the irony of this thought, and decide that you thoroughly hate whoever came up with irony in the first place.)
In the second, you draw back, get up and walk away. But, no, that's impossible too. She isn't a woman to be abandoned. She will always do the leaving; you're certain of it. She'd never give up control like that.
In the third, when you pull back, you'll look at her for a second and kiss her again. But you won't do that for the exact same reason you didn't lean. That would be a promise, and you don't do anything that stupid.
So you end up pulling back. You watch as her eyes stay closed, lips slightly parted. If there ever was a sight that would convince you that love isn't just some big cosmic joke, this would be it. For a second, she just breathes and you watch as her eyes flutter open. The two of you just sit in silence. Don't acknowledge what just happened, don't even acknowledge the fact that you're sitting next to each other. Neither of you says anything and both of you stare off into space.
When she gets up to leave, you imagine grabbing her arm, kissing her again. Anything to make her stop. But she's gone before you can even decide whether to say her name.
Maybe tomorrow, you'll talk to her about it. Maybe you'll tell her that your father was an abusive bastard, that your mother didn't care enough to protect you or herself. Maybe you'll simply tell her that you want her, that you can't stand to see her hurt. Maybe you'll just kiss her again.
You wish you were the kind of person who would be able to do any of this. You wish you were the kind of person she needs you to be. You wish you could be that rock she pretends so desperately not to need. But you're not. So tomorrow, instead, you'll probably be a jackass about the whole thing, or just not acknowledge it ever happened. After all, that's where you're most comfortable.
You turn to Joe and order another drink. You eye the space she left vacant and you miss the warmth you felt radiating off her body, the feel of her curious and not entirely sober gaze.
Yes, you wish you could be that rock.
So, the time has come for me to do my customary begging and ask for a review. Please, won't you leave a review? :)
-Juli-
