This one isn't a request. Just my mind running wild. I blame the summer heat. It's for Kronos, who seems to like my drabbles and whose review inspired my brain to work :)
She is waiting for him.
The curtains in the hotel room flutter in the warm summer breeze; rippling through space, the ghostly whiteness breaking up the darkness of the night. She shivers. Not because it's cold. It's not. She shivers because she is cold. Because the breeze against her skin makes her notice the absence, the absence of him. She looks at the clock on the nightstand, the numbers ominously glowing in the dark – forty minutes past midnight. She sighs. She's tired. Her eyelids heavy; but not as heavy as her eyes. Heavy with unshed tears for the undreamt dreams.
She is waiting for him and she hates herself for it. She hates herself for wanting him; because let's be clear, she doesn't need him; no this is want – this is primal, it's hungry kisses; it's bruises and small, butterfly-like bites; it's their hips moving in unison, their hands pushing against the bathroom door. It's him filling her up, making her come apart; it's him easing her pain momentarily, making her feel less empty. It's him. Knocking.
"I'm sorry." It's all he says. He could explain. Explain he had a fight with Mellie; explain that he lay next to her waiting for her to fall asleep; explain that he couldn't just leave. But he doesn't explain. It would make no difference.
She just looks at him. She doesn't say anything. She knows. She knows why he's late. She knows his wife is here; she knows he lay next to her; she knows she fell asleep next to him. And it stings. She has no right. But her gut; it feels like it's being ripped out; the regret in his eyes, the way the sorry rolls of his tongue so effortlessly, sculpted to perfection by the number of times he'd said it. It stings and her insides feel like they're burning. Burning and disappearing all at the same time. So she doesn't say anything. No, instead she kisses him. Those hungry kisses.
Open mouthed. Their lips, their lips barely touching. Their tongues battling. The hungry kisses. And the angry touches. The way she clings to his shirt, before ripping it; the way she bites his shoulder; the way her nails dig into his back. Anger. At him, at herself. Hate. She hates them. She hates the hunger and the anger; she hates the hate; she hates how good he feels, how good he makes her feel; she hates the way her tongue gliding against the creases of his lips carries intimacy; she hates that she revers it.
And he pushes. Pushes until it hurts. Until her lungs give out and her eyes fall shut. Pushes until the hurt feels too good. He collapses next to her and rolls on his back. Their chests heaving, their eyes fixed on the ceiling. Avoiding. Forgetting. Forgetting how good it feels.
He kisses her cheek. He lingers. For a moment, his lips on the soft skin. Her eyes on the ceiling. Her body stiff. Intimacy. Her eyelids heavy, closing; the eyes heavy – the unshed tears falling. He feels them, feels the droplets on her skin, feels them against his lips. He just kisses the trail up to her eyes. Laying feather-light kisses on her eyelids. No hungriness in the kisses, no anger in the touches. He's kissing her tears away, but he's not easing her pain. No, the intimacy burns her instead. The fleeting intimacy. Because she knows, she knows that with the sunrise it will come to the end; that it will die as soon as they leave the bed; they will burn in the sunlight, and she will die with them. He will leave and she will stay, all alone. Waiting. Waiting for him. And a glimpse of intimacy.
But tonight, she gives in. She gives into the soft kisses; she presses her lips to his; she feels the creases, the crevices; the imperfections of the warm rims. She touches his skin with her fingertips; oh-so-lightly; she feels him shiver, shiver because of the warmth; shiver because his skin burns as well, burns from the anger and the hate; shiver because her touch takes the heaviness away. Tonight she gives in. Tonight, the make love. Their fingers intertwined; pushing into the mattress; as their eyes shut, as their bodies heave; in sync.
She lies on her side, perfectly molded to his. Perfectly. His fingertips trail her arm, and her knuckles brush against his cheek, barely – committing the lightness to memory. The impossible lightness.
They don't sleep. No, tonight they can't afford to dream. If they did, tonight, they'd never wake up.
She is waiting for him. She is waiting for him to leave. The faint sunlight creeping in. She is waiting for him to leave. The imminence of it suffocating. And he does. He gets up. Avoiding her eyes. He gets up. He gets his shirt from the floor. His pants. He puts his shoes on. He kisses her temple. He walks to the door. He turns the handle. A click. A click: the death of intimacy.
The curtains flutter in the momentary draught. They fly in, they fly up; breaking up the stillness of the ceiling; breaking up the simplicity. She closes her eyes. She shivers. The heaviness settling once again. The waiting.