He's kissing me.
I don't know how it happened, really, except that one minute we were talking, and now he's kind of over me and it feels good. Also, his tongue is kind of in me, and that feels really good, too.
Really fucking good.
I'm assaulted by how amazing he tastes – like clean mint and fresh water. How he smells like cotton and Downy and man. I'm also clutching his t-shirt with fists that can't seem to grip tight enough. I'm actually pulling him to me, and I can't stop. Especially not when he slides his hand just under the waist of my pajamas. Or when his fingers brush the top of my ass just like that.
"Goddamn," he breathes.
It almost sounds like a compliment, except the fact that he's speaking means he's no longer kissing me. My lips seek out his, and he lets me find them. And now I'm just feeling this – feeling him. And for the first time in what seems like forever, I don't feel anything else.
I don't feel angry.
I'm not pissed off at the world because how can I be?
I spread my legs as far as the wooden chair allows me. He sinks in lower, closer.
He moans.
I do, too.
"We need to take this inside," he says. Warm puffs of his breath blow across my face. "We're not the only ones that share this garden."
And then reality tumbles down on me with the weight of all the stones in this garden. All of it – everything – hits me all at once.
I'm here – away from home, across the fucking country. I'm here because I couldn't cope. I can't…I can't cope. And not coping has made me so pissed off that I can't even do my job.
This is humiliating.
This is mortifying beyond description.
And now – on top of all that – I'm here with my legs spread, clinging to man that doesn't even know my name. I don't know his.
Oh, god.
Oh my fucking god!
I'm not sure, but I'm almost positive that this is some sort of breakdown. This is just some tremendously expensive institution with rooms that feels like a hotel and a serenity garden instead of group therapy.
I push him off of me with a force that almost impresses me.
"What's the matter?" he asks. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing…everything. Fuck," I hiss. "You have to leave. I'm sorry…I'm sorry, but you have to go."
"Why?" he asks.
"Because we can't…I can't do this."
He holds his hands up. Almost like he's surrendering or something. Or like I'm a crazy person. The latter makes me feel even more sick and embarrassed.
"What's wrong?"
I'm laughing now.
Great.
Fucking great.
"You think I'm going to tell you what's wrong with me?" Yep, still laughing. "I haven't even told you my name!"
I briefly wonder how many breathing exercises it will take for me to calm down again.
"If it helps, my name is Edward," he says softly.
I turn to walk inside.
"It doesn't."
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