|In the Cold November Rain (standard:romance, 555 words)|
|Author: FrenZy||Added: Jan 20 2007||Views/Reads: 1845/0||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|This is just a little sad fiction to fit into the grey November mood..|
London, November 2006 I sat alone, wrapped in a dirty bath towel, chain smoking. Josh Groban was playing faintly on the radio, the television turned mute – all I could make out was the face of a soap opera star, talking wordlessly with tears on her eyes. Such cliché, I snorted in disgust. Who would buy such a fake expression? I stared at the bathroom, its door open, revealing the perfect exposure of the wet mirror – my fingerprints pressed there just a couple of minutes ago. A bottle of painkillers sat beside a few expired toiletries. I was too wound up to care. I sighed and stood up, inching toward the half opened window. It was a depressing London weather in November, the unfriendly humid air poisoning my oily skin, adding redundant moistures to my hair, the rain washing over me like a bad nostalgia. I grabbed the only cup of coffee at the table – it was half empty. I ignored the bitterness on my taste buds, abandoning the urge for sugar high, a little more alcoholism, and another dose of that painkiller. And then I lit yet another cigarette, resisting my desperation to choke out loud. If I could just take one look at the mirror, I would not see the same person anymore. My energy had drained out of me, I was as tired as the next Londoner hopping on the tube heading back home. I had lost a couple of serious pounds, my fingers smelly from smoking too much, and my mouth tasted of nothing but coffee and cigarette. And of him. I glanced at the motionless body next to me. A man's body. I almost laughed out loud. What was a man's body doing on my bed? And worse, what was this man doing here? He hadn't been here for nine, ten, oh, eleven months. And suddenly there he was, two hours ago, turning up on my doorstep with that devilish grin of his. Yes, he was the devil, and I bowed to him like a slave. “I need you,” he had said to me. I just looked him in the eye, looking for an answer, or simply just an inch of truth. “You need a place to stay,” I interpreted his words for him, or rather for us. “Tonight,” he confirmed it. I did not know whether I should laugh or cry. We had made love. We mixed euphoria, exaggerated sadness, a little of alcohol, too much smoke, and enthusiasm. But I wished there was just a touch of love. We made up for the lost time he had given me. I stroke my bare finger on his cheek. He stirred in his sleep and opened his eyes dreamily, as if he was traveling a dream and I had to shake him up to reality. “I love you,” I whispered. A slow smile stretched across his face. “Thank you,” he said, and then fell back asleep. I just stared back at him, this child trapped in a body of a man. My mind repeated a million questions I would never get the answers to. Do you love me? Will your wife come looking for you? Will you say goodbye and never come back? And I just sat there, waiting, in the cold November rain, answering all my questions to myself. ** Tweet
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