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Summary: Morning after drabble.
Feedback: Always.
Next morning
He was in flames, she was dancing on his skin. It would all die surely, once he stepped through the door and she was there, in her little two piece suit and whit shirt, her prim high heels hiding her prim feet and legs, just standing, with no night at all clinging to her, while he, he had swallowed it and the stars where now living in his heart.
Never had he been so wrong. She was naked, and he could see the exact places where he had put his hands. Her eyes were night just as much as his heart was, her hair bed-ruffled, and the smile on her mouth. Mischief. Truth. There. Just there. Like she was. So much more than a promise. A future. A life.
"Good morning."
"Good morning."
He sat at his desk and started with a pile of reports. His fingers were singing on the keys, he was writing poems that only she would understand. He enjoyed the words like another night of love, and the neon lights, and the morning faces.
She got up and came back with two coffees, milky sweet for him, black and sweet for her. He clearly tasted her kiss as he put the cup to his lips, and realised then that now her taste would be on everything. A tremor shook him. What an enormous and inescapable thing love was.