"So, did you enjoy the show this afternoon?"
I jump, haven't reckoned with seeing him so soon. "Whatcha mean, Face?"
"Oh come on, don't try to fool me."
He's had a few, I can smell it on his breath. Well, being sober, he wouldn't mention it, so the smell is merely confirmation. I can't stand him when he's drunk. He tends to become aggressive under the influence.
"You had the separating screen down for a good part of the action." He smiles underhandedly.
"I..." I'm damned. What do I tell him now? Surely not the truth!
"Don't tell me she's your type. I know she's not your type."
"And what would be my type?" I ask to hopefully lead him into a different direction. It's usually easy to distract him, even easier when he's drunk.
"Blond," he answers promptly.
No kidding, he's right.
"You like blondes." He gets a dreamy look, and suddenly I see his face before me the way he looked in the afternoon, after the bitch had left the limo. That one person could look so absolutely contented...
"Small," he continues, and I'm back in the present. "Not too... womanly shaped." He smiles conspiringly. "I never understood that, Murdock. What's there to love with a woman if not breasts?"
Okay, I love him. But right now he disgusts me. "Face, you speak like the worst chauvinist I've ever had the displeasure to meet."
"What?" He looks at me innocently. "Am I not right?"
"Face, just how much have you had tonight?"
"Just a couple of ..." he blinks, and frowns, trying to remember, "... whatevers."
"Yeah, that's what I think, too. Because usually you don't talk such rubbish."
"Oh, thank you." He actually sounds pleased. "Didn't know you put any value to what I say normally."
"Face, just go to bed, and sleep it off."
"Don't want to," he contradicts me, and heads away, over to the wet bar. He walks straight.
The apartment is first class. He always gets the best possible. Not only for himself, but us too. Sometimes even the best isn't really good, but we can always rest assured that there is nothing better available than what he got us. Okay, so sometimes he does mess up, but rarely, and this apartment is first class.
He left again after that short exchange and a quick glass of something colourless. I don't like him out like this but there's nothing I can do. He is his own person with his own rights. If he wants to get drenched up to the hairline, so be it. I have no right to stop him.
The shower's décor is only this side of tasteful. Well no, it isn't. It's ugly in its pompousness. Perversely enough, it matches Face to perfection. He's like this shower sometimes: arranging so much glitter-flitter-flatter around himself that he himself almost disappears in the midst.
Aaaaah, hot water! Can't beat it. I look up into the water streaming down, and, of course, I promptly expect Norman Bates in drag to step into the bathroom, knife raised and ready.
Gotta giggle and shake my head over myself. Sometimes I'm a little too zonked even for my own taste.
The image of Face sprawled on the backseat, his head flopped back, impossibly broad smile on his face, floats into my mind.
Oh damn, just what I need right now. Really! I swear, I was only one second away from crawling through the open gap when I saw him reclining there. I was hard from listening, and I so painfully wanted to be next to him, embrace him, kiss him. I wanted to come; with him, next to him. I almost lost my wits that moment.
I was only saved by the Colonel. He said something, just when I was about to do the unforgivable.
Great... Now I'm hardening again. Getting aroused, yearning for nothing but Face with me, and I'm unable to do anything about it.
Jesus, damn, fuck!
I used to be able to wank, at least. Running fantasies of Face and me, and it all worked well. It was not the most satisfying sex of my life, but it was okay. And I can't even do that anymore. It feels like cheating on him. Now how silly is that?
I'm doomed to standing under the shower with an erection and torturing thoughts of a naked Face, who's coming closer and closer and...
I bang my head against the tiles. Pain used to help, and it does again tonight. The erection almost goes away. I quickly turn off the shower, don't dare to dry myself, because it would be too much like a caress, and go to "my" room. There's a tv, I switch it on and watch... news... some movie from the sixties... commercials... news... commercials... a black and white western... commercials... news...
It's morning.
I'm cold, over-tired, have a nasty bump on my forehead, and still want Face. – Well, that last one won't change anytime soon, so just accept it, Murdock. Now dress and go make breakfast.
I try to avoid thinking of him while I set up the coffee machine, and make myself some fruits with yoghurt. I succeed – almost. Thinking "don't think of him", naturally makes me think of him the entire time.
He comes in just when the coffee's finished. He takes a big cup, fills it, sits down and just stares into the distance. He's not quite awake yet. He looks rumpled, hung over. Sexy.
I sit down opposite him with my own cup of coffee and the bowl of fruits and yoghurt. It's probably not wise to sit so close to him, but what excuse could I give him to not sit down? I don't eat my breakfast standing at the counter, and he knows it. He'd ask why I wouldn't sit down with him, and whether he'd done something to upset me. Well, and what can I tell him then? You were drinking? Nah, not good. He'd know it as the lie it would be.
Face does eat leaning against the counter sometimes. So if I were him, I could easily stay at the counter and look out of the window, acting as if I didn't notice anything or anyone in the world. But I'm not him, and so I have to sit down. And there's only one table in this kitchen.
"What happened to your head?" he asks.
"Silly mishap in the shower," I tell him. And it's almost the truth.
"Looks nasty. You should put something on it."
"Too late for putting anything on it," I tell him, and he just nods. I think he's happy that he's not expected to do or even say anything. – Too early in the morning; for him at least.
Listening to him drinking, gives me the weird wish I could be the cup... Boy, boy. I need a shrink, and pronto.
"I wish you'd stopped me yesterday," he says with a dramatic sigh, and quickly takes a sip from his coffee to play over the embarrassment that follows the remark. It is, after all, a confession that he's done something stupid.
I wonder what exactly he means. The drinking? The backseat thing in the afternoon? Leaving for a round of drinking when he already was drunk? I have no idea what he means, so I ignore the comment and drink my coffee.
TBC