2:09 AM
I slipped the thin strap into a buckle of the shoe around my
ankle, looking up at the man in front of me. He had black slacks on, a blue
shirt and a black coat over it. His tie was undone under the collar of his
shirt. He looked outside to see if anyone was around. I stood up, pulling my
pale red dress down to remove any wrinkles. I looked myself in the mirror by
the door while stabilizing myself on the three inch heels and checked out my
hair. The sun from outside highlighted it a burning fire. My pale skin was
smooth, my cheeks brushed pink and my lips were coloured a somewhat pinkish
red. The thin strap of my dress revealed an obvious collarbone - what I get
after bulimia. The scar on my shoulder blade where my father placed the end of
a burning cigarette butt was just as obvious.
I looked at the man near the door. He was
staring at me, his eyes an unreadable black. His nose was slightly bent, his
lips not too thin but not too thick. I wish he would smile more often, but the
only times I've seen him smile is when I refuse his offerings of a smoke. He
was good looking, but he looked even better when he smiles. His black hair was
slightly unruly, so I went to him to comb it back a bit with my fingers. He
didn't move, his eyes locked on me.
"You feeling okay?" he asked.
"I'll be fine."
"If you need me-"
"You'll be here. Four till ten. Got
it."
He let out a sigh. I hadn't known this man
for more than two months but I like him more than anyone else I've known my
entire life. He listens. He doesn't say anything, which I won't say is the only
thing I need, but it's comforting at times. When I don't seek advice but a
listening ear, I come here. Things go further but we don't discuss it.
I don't know what he does for a living,
but he has to have a job to afford a place like this and such nice clothes. The
house isn't the fanciest I've seen, but it was considerably big for a stop-by
place. I know I had never lived in such a building. Double storey, three
bedrooms and two bathrooms, a working stove and a six foot fridge.
I never asked what he does. By the looks
of it I probably shouldn't, because I saw him load his gun once before slipping
it into his suitcase when he thought I wasn't looking. It was dark, and I heard
clicking in the cold air. I turned around in the white sheets, keeping my eyes
closed. There was a pause, but when I heard him opening the zip I peeked
through my eyelids. He kept the bag under the bedside table and went back to
bed. His cheeks had a glinting line, what I thought looked like a tear stain.
He stared at the ceiling and whispered to himself, "I can't do this."
I have no idea what I'm doing; being here
with him almost every night, leaving behind my own house, my family. They don't
know. They best not know. They have marriage planned for me.
"Do you have a life?" I asked
him once. I was wearing only his shirt while getting myself a glass of O.J. He
was sitting in a sofa in front of the TV, flipping through the channels,
uninterested, clothed with a white t-shirt and shorts.
"It depends on your definition of
life," he replied, landing on the news. "I got things figured out,
but it's not exactly what I'd call living."
"So you're settled in?" I asked,
walking towards him.
"I guess you can say that." I
sat next to him, folding my legs on the seat and resting my head on his
shoulder. The cold skin of my thighs touch my calves, making me shiver.
"Why? You're not?"
"I can survive," I tell him.
"But I have no freedom. I'm not happy."
"You can't expect being happy to be
easy."
"You can strive for it though."
He turned slightly to look at me through
my red hair, then he turned back to rest his cheek on my head. "Have you
thought of a way?"
"By setting this whole city on
fire."
"How do we do that?"
"Pour kerosene everywhere. Poke holes
into the tyres of firetrucks. Then we light that fancy lighter of yours."
"You have an idea how we'll get all
that kerosene?"
"You're rich. I'm sure you can get to
it."
He snickered. I wish I saw his face,
because I'm sure he looked better than the straight face with the slanted
eyebrows I usually see when I get here. "I'm not rich, but okay, what will
we do after that?"
"We run."
He didn't say anything. I took his hand
and observed it. There were so many cuts; deep lines that went across his palm,
a long stitch scar on the back and his phalanges protruding against the
pink-tinted skin. I stroked the back side slightly with my thumb, and he gently
grasped onto my hands.
"Where to?" he asked.
"To the end of the rainbow."
Labels: fan-fiction, inspirations, romance, slice-of-life
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