March 5, 2013 – Word Prompt: Skilled. Plot Generator—Idea Completion: Twisting the truth.
. . .
"Happy New Year, Bella," I say into the mouthpiece of my phone, my heart hammering an unfollowable beat in my chest. Voice mail. Couldn't answer or didn't want to? Almost ten o'clock, which means she's probably at some loud party somewhere. Maybe with a date. Try not to imagine her kissing someone at midnight and fail, because who wouldn't want to kiss her? "I just, uh, wanted to wish you the best for the coming year." I wince, sound like a greeting card. A clichéd one, at that. "I, uh, hope you had a great Christmas." And I'm stumped again. "It was nice talking to you then." A slight twist of the truth: talking to her was a lot of things – intimidating, exhilarating, slightly awkward – but "nice" doesn't even factor in.
What else is there to blurt into the ghostly silence of her inbox?
Give me a call? Asking too much, maybe.
Sorry I missed you? Too much potential to be read as an ending.
I'll try you again? Stalkerish.
"I hope to talk to you again soon," I settle on finally, dropping my phone on the couch cushion beside me as I watch the people in Times Square get progressively drunker as the crowd thins, the ball having dropped nearly an hour ago.
A blond with a microphone is making laps, asking stragglers about their New Year's resolutions, and at no other point in the year is the human race so skilled in the art of self-delusion. I already know that woman #1 isn't going to go to the gym every day, woman #2 isn't going to meet the love of her life, woman #3 isn't going to save money for her dream vacation.
"And you at home," the blond says now, staring straight into the lens. "What are your promises to yourself for the coming year?"
The same as always: to deserve what I'll never have.
. . .
People watch us now, and I notice Bella noticing. I kiss her against her locker, but after the first time I try to slide my tongue into her mouth and she pulls back so quickly she bangs her head against the metal door behind her, I keep it chaste. Remind myself that she's younger, she's a sophomore, she's modest and borderline shy.
But I don't care about any of them, because she's mine. And though neither of us is particularly skilled in the art of seduction, her kisses are real and honest and gentle and Bella.
She pulls away from my lips, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth as her dark eyes flick around the hallway, cataloguing who's been watching her suck face with her boyfriend. I bury my face in her neck because I don't give a shit – let them watch. I can smell the mixture of things that make up "Bella," and I'd never say it aloud because it's girly and stupid and embarrassing, but if I could bottle that smell up and keep it on me, I would. I kiss the soft skin at the side of her neck once, absently, without really thinking about it, and at her soft, surprised gasp, I harden.
I pull my hips away immediately; God knows she isn't ready to have the evidence of how badly I want her pressed against her in the middle of the hallway. Or anywhere, for that matter. But I can't help wondering, if we were somewhere else, somewhere without prying eyes, when she might be.
. . .