Pavlov's Bell
The click signifies her return, and he obeys the sound with near inhuman proficiency. He ceases whatever activity he may be doing at the moment to undress in full, militarily, laying his clothes neatly over a chair. He then crosses the room on silent feet that may not even exist anymore to the bed. He lies down on his back, down on a curtain of damaged, dried out green that frays at the edges, and he waits. It isn't long before she'll be upon him, smooth, slick limbs sliding between his thick, coarse trunks, misshapen and lazy from the sudden cease of exercise. Her hair comes down from its tight bindings and it smells of freshly cut grass and shampoo and the world he used to be apart of. When she lies across him, it falls into his violet gaze and clouds his vision, and all he can see is a brown sky as she forces herself upon him, pinching, biting, grabbing, moaning, and all the while whispering so frighteningly sweetly into his ear, "You're mine, sweet thing. I love you, and you're mine."
When it's over, she lies in his limp, impassionate arms for an hour, her own tiny arms wrapped around his sickeningly thin body in a suffocating, possessive embrace. Afterwards, she makes dinner, and they eat in silence.
He never closes his eyes. He's always staring upwards, through the ceiling, through the sky, searching for the eternity he never found.