In the small hours in the morning, 2-D liked to watch the smoke rise from his cigarette as he sat upright in the bed of a woman he hardly knew. He gazed over her curves, slowly rising and falling as she faced away from him, sleeping.
And, as usual, he pretended.
After their lovemaking-no, after their shagging-she kissed him goodnight and turned to fall effortlessly asleep. Stu would not be so lucky.
The cigarette burned down to his fingers and he stubbed it out in the ashtray on the night stand. He wondered if, for once, he should stay until morning. Just to make breakfast; it wouldn't mean that they had to start anything serious. Just eggs, just a sweet conversation, just long enough to see the yellow sunlight in the kitchen on the white tablecloth, a domestic dream. Just continue the connection a little longer, so he could imagine that they at least had the potential to start something real.
Sometimes he gets lucky and he gets to snuggle with the women who take him home. But he knows that you don't talk about your deep feelings during a one-night stand. But he would imagine that they were more than that.
2-D and the woman-who? For the fantasy, it doesn't matter-they would hold hands in public and exchange chaste kisses on the cheek. They would watch movies together and she would patiently explain things to him. When someone around them was acting in a way he misinterpreted, she wouldn't call him dumb, she would just tell him what was happening, and they would do the things that she liked to do and they would become the things he liked to do and they could fill in each others' weaknesses and empty spaces. As it was, 2-D tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest knowing that this would never happen.
In his fantasy life, at least the sex would be the same. Nothing too kinky, but hot and fast and with lots of gazing into each others' eyes, him on top and her moving to his rhythm, pawing at his biceps, giggling. Then collapsing, sweaty, onto the sheets.
They would have good times together, and it would be ok to have dark conversations. They would come up naturally, and not just because Stuart had the need to confess building up in his chest for years, blurting out all his pains and fears to his devoted partner like a volcano. No, it would be fine, and natural, and cathartic.
She would sit beside him and hold him closely if he had a panic attack, simply repeating that it would be ok. He would tell her the horrors he had endured, and see how he was hurting, and understand. She would make a mental note to steer him away from images of whales, and to never corner him in a room. She would be smarter than Stuart, so if he ever told her something that wasn't worth getting upset about, the woman would know. She would tell him gently and would help him think about something else. And when he told her something truly dark, that she knew was wrong, she would tell him that, too. That she was sorry and it shouldn't have happened. And he would know it was ok to be angry and scared, and he could take steps to be less angry about the past, and there would be less to be scared about in the present.
As Stuart watched the half-moon slowly travel across the sky through the open window, soft white curtains billowing, he pretended that the woman beside him would happily feel his pain, slowly kiss his scars, and be warm and receptive to his feelings.
But, it was a selfish fantasy. Why should she care about him? They didn't know each other that well, and he honestly didn't care about her much either. He liked her well enough through the few times that they had met. He cared about her enough not to bring her to where he lived. He cared about her not to subject her to the inevitable harassment Murdoc laid on all his girlfriends in the past.
Stuart sighed and quietly swung his legs out of the bed. He scanned the room for his clothes, and moved to collect them.
He should just go now. Better the lovers each have their breakfasts alone.