She stares out of her feminine, hooded eyes and it's almost as if she is peering through the looking glass with it's crystallized arch and poetic once-upon-a-times.
He's there with the stooped back that had bowed to the blows of time long ago, and his cane is there like an ironic prop that draws attention away from his empty ring finger- rough, masculine hands kissing the ivory keys with the affection that she had once imagined he'd have if he touched her.
She stands against the frame of his living room, like his own personal archangel that falls to his bidding, and swirls the crimson drink around the expensive wine glass- (and she finds it morbidly hysteric that it's the same color his heart would be, if he had one.) His back is turned to the piano, and she stares enviously at the smooth mahogany surface of the only woman who he lets feel his pain.
She finds herself wondering why she is even there, and tries to act like the only reason she keeps coming back is because she doesn't want to come home to an empty bed… but she isn't fooling herself, and she's pretty sure she isn't fooling him either.
The melody has stopped and the silence cocoons her, kissing her temples with sticky whispers of "if only", and it's taunting her like the jump off of a cliff that is only too convenient.
He reaches deftly for the cane and she braces herself for the grunt or hiss or swear of pain that inevitably comes with the simple gesture of standing, and then he's looking at her with those stunning, sore eyes that break her heart with every silent secret that he's not willing to admit.
Even then, she can see the iron wall behind those ebony pupils that trap him mercilessly, and the only person who can release him is himself, because he's the only one who can get close enough to try.
She has tried to tell him that she would be more than willing to suffer if only it would lift him from his abyss of pain, but they can both tell that he would never let her past his soul, because that's how far his secrets are buried.
And now, even though she knows that the hangover he gives her every night will hurt more than a strong woman like her is willing to admit, she is pulled towards him like a magnetic force that won't weaken, no matter how many times it's been broken.
With a reckless abandon, she throws herself at him and her hands are in his hair and his lips are on her neck, and suddenly they're tangled in the middle of his apartment, and the glass slips from her fingers and crashes to the floor in a thousand little rainbow pieces.
She finds it cliché to think that the glass resembles her heart with ever brush of his fingers, but she can't deny that it's exactly what she's feeling.
She's on her tiptoes, but he is majestically tall, so he still bends over to suck on the milky column of her throat. She can feel the mark that is beginning to form, and he looks down at her with that expression of smug hostility that is not necessarily directed at her, but in anyone who is feeling dangerous enough to approach her when he's not there.
"Let `em all see it." He growls, and it sends quivers through every crevice of her body. In a sick way, she likes how he acts as if she belongs to him, but at the same time, a little voice in the back of her mind says that she doesn't and never will- and with the way he stares at her shivering body, she can tell that he is thinking the exact same thing.
She's ready to collapse, and although he is cripple, he's strong. He's holding her up with one hand on the small of her back, as if he's dipping her, and she wishes that he could dance.
She'd twirl with him at parties and clubs, and the others would stare admiringly at the woman who he lets love him… and at the same moment she thinks this, she reminds herself that happily-ever-afters only exist in movies.
"Be-bedroom…" She stutters, and from lidded eyes she can see him smirking, because he likes this effect he has on her. His arms fall to his side and she clumsily bends down to pick his cane up for him, because he had dropped it to hold her. He takes it from her, and she leads him away with the other hand.
She knows this place so well that she has it memorized, and she walks through it backwards to his bed. His eyes are lowered and she can't help but feel as if he's embarrassed, or ashamed by the way that even in the midst of lust, he needs a cane to walk.
Though she never even glances at the scar on his leg, or the awkward limp that hurts his shoulder, she can't help but feel as if this is a little bit of a way that she can make it up to him, because she was there when his muscle had been cut out, and she still feels responsible.
She sits on his bed and he pulls his hand from her small ones to reach onto the bedside table and snatch the little orange bottle that she is all too familiar with. He unsubtly pops the lid and doesn't even bother to watch it roll under the bed as he dry swallows the two pills in his palm.
Slowly, when his eyes and knitted brows look expectantly back at her, she gently pulls the cane from his fist and lays it beside her on the bed before he instinctively sits.
She stands in front of him and he sets his hands on her hips, and she seductively pulls her shirt and bra off. Then he's there, pulling down her skirt and panties simultaneously.
In moments of heavy breathing and stolen glances, they shed their clothes and she climbs onto his lap. It's all very satisfactory, but not at the same time, and she concludes that if he were to take her as his, it'd be perfect… but he won't, and she is learning to accept that.
And then he's in her, around her, touching her, and she throws her head back and braces her hands on his chest to ride him. She pulls up with strong, athlete's thighs and falls like the gush of gravity.
"House." It's a simple word, but for a moment she's afraid because she thinks she's wrapped too much emotion into his name, but when she pants and looks down at him and his gaped mouth and swollen lips, she thinks that he doesn't care.
And the whole time he never stops touching her, kissing her, breathing into her, until they both explode, as if they are in perfect sync, and she finds that she enjoys this thought far more than she should.
The music around them, (pants, sweaty skin against sweaty skin, the thump of her heart that's greater than his), dies down and then they're right back where they started- swallowed by silence.
She's laying against his chest and gently stroking his arms, but he's making it all too clear that he doesn't want her this close, so she reluctantly lifts herself from him and rolls over, and he rolls farther.
Then, for five whole minutes, she prays that he'll stay and sleep by her side tonight, just like she does every night. And even though he lives there, he never stays because he can never hear her hopes, and she thinks that even if he could, he wouldn't stay anyways.
Then, as if they were in perfect sync, she knows that he'll stand and dress himself, and he does. Her back is to him, but she can feel his lingering gaze at her spine before she hears the unsettling thump of foot and cane against wood.
A moment later, she hears a door open and shut, and she's alone.
And just like every night, little glassy tears fall from her china eyes and she can't stop them from soaking into his pillow and staining it, and she's sure that by now, he knows that every time he leaves, she cries. She can almost see a yellowish splotch from it.
She bites her lip, and she promises herself she won't sob, and she never does, because as much as she knows she loves him, she knows that admitting he breaks her every time won't help.
Night seeps through every corner like a plague, and she begs it to take her, (though she knows that Night will never be able to make her feel like he does.) But Night evades her, and she lies there, completely awake in the aftermath of what is supposed to be love.
If only. She thinks bitterly, and remembers how those two words taunt her like the jump off of the cliff. If only she weren't such a coward, if only she could be spontaneous and kiss him and tell him that she loves him like she wishes she could.
If only she knew that every time, the same two words haunt him.
If only.
_______________________________________________
because if she did, maybe it would be all better. maybe.
what says you to this?
~ a.