Hey, I'm still alive. Here's some snippets.
These memories are so recent she still aches in unfamiliar ways. So tantalizing, she can't shut off the random reflections that interrupt the quiet moments of her day. She's overcome by rumination so vivid the pain of healing stretches is replaced by increasing need. She tries to hide her blush as she seeks some small privacy in the single stall bathroom across the building and a floor up.
.
.
Everything is warm. Not just in the cozy temperature in the small space but in the hues and softness of the couch and pillows. And in the delicious smell of spiced tea with dark rum. There's also the comfort of idle chat and drunken complements that devolve into intimate hugs and a less than chaste kiss. Softness envelops them taking away the harsh angles of youth and the merciless wants of lust and instead instilling content safety in tender touches.
.
.
It's masochism and he has been avoiding hurting himself but its also an addiction he can't resist. Just a little indulgence to see how much pain she can still inflict even though he already knows too well its a lot. He leans in, making his presence known and silence falls like caught children discussing their parents secrets. He insists, prods, almost begs for any news of her. When they oblige, slow and tentative, the burn and ache feels fresh and deep. They deliver the details and he winces when it gets hard to breath, but he doesn't want them to stop.
.
.
It's not so easy when there isn't anger and betrayal as a motivator. When its just lust and a physical longing, he feels less justified. He's entertained the idea. He has even stepped into the back hallways a few times after drinks but nothing comes of it besides his embarrassed retreat.