Here’s a little writing exercise because I got bumped in my blog chain.
It’s just to get warmed up as my blog has been a bit slow.
I called her up. I knew I was about to do something completely wrong. She didn’t answer, just as expected, so it was my turn to act. I got into the car, drove over to her house and knocked–hypocritically–on the door. I knew it was open; it creaked as my knuckles banged on it.
Dark. And still, I could see the upturned chairs, the thin layer of dust kicking up as I walked inside, the roaches scuttling for safety, though they knew me, and moths wandering aimlessly, looking for a flame to follow.
I walked up the stairs. Creak, creak, a loud creak.
It was hot. It was not supposed to be hot. My body started oozing thick drops of salty, clean liquid. It wasn’t the heat. I was just scared s***tless. I could just see it, feel it and hear it: my hands running up and down her body, occasionally they flinching because she’s feels cold, my lips kissing her, her eyes locked upon me, gazing deep into my heart and she stands almost motionless, just a leaf floating in the water. And I’m the tide.
I opened the door and there she was. The cracks on the roof let the moonlight seep in, dropping onto her light rain, highlighting her big eyes and narrow chin, her thin–almost too long–of a nose and her piercing black, shoe-shine hair. She said nothing.
I stood there for a moment but I knew there was no reaction, she ran away from it, as always. From the start, she wanted to run away. I saw her face: was she scared? I couldn’t tell. Sometimes, in fear, there was pleasure.
I got undressed. I inched my way to the bed and sneaked under the blankets. I kissed her feet, looking gray and pale under the light, then I ran my hands up her long legs–husks of an elephant they were, just imposing–and up to her breasts. I stopped.
Her nipples had turned gray and dry. The veins were bluish. A fly landed on her eye, not a flinch.
Decay had seeped in.
It was time to find another one.