Of Lies & Lovers

Posted: August 22, 2013 in Fiction
Tags: , , , ,

Lies, like poison spreading through the veins. Once it starts, it doesn’t stop. You ponder the so-called immorality of it all. A lie never dies, you decide. It’s wrong. A stain upon one’s soul.

And yet, you lie. By omission, yes, but it’s still deceiving someone innocent. Lying by omission ranks pretty highly on your ladder of immorality, and your guilty conscience constantly reminds you that what you’re doing will land you a one-way roller coaster ticket to Hell.

Oh, who am I kidding? You think, flicking your cigarette. I’ve practically secured myself a position as Satan’s concubine or something equally damning.

Ash floats in the air, and lands, with the same ease and nonchalance as a parachute, only to stain the wooden floor with grey flecks. You breathe out a sigh and with it comes a spiral of smoke, which eventually drifts away to add its signature to the smells in the room. You sit curled up in the chair by the window, an arm around your knees and your other hand grasping the cigarette. You wear only a pair of boxers and your favourite lace bra, on which one strap has slipped off your shoulder to bare pale skin invitingly. Outside the window, the night continues its valiant watch on the sleeping and keeps a stern and warning eye on those awake.

Your nose twitches slightly. The scent of your rampant lovemaking predominates the air, along with that of spilt alcohol—a mixture of Heineken and Glen Morangie that is testament to your differences—and a certain mustiness that belongs to the room itself. The only light in the room comes from the bedside lamp that casts an ethereal glow onto your lovers’ reclining body, and the angry, red glow of the cancer stick. It’s life is cut short soon after and it goes out with a protesting hiss as you flick it with the expertise of one smoking since age fourteen into the ashtray and then run your fingers through cropped, black hair.

Cerulean eyes settle on the sleeping woman and trace the soft, feminine curves of that body like a finger stroking and caressing every bit of velvety skin. As if the gaze carries physical weight, the chest heaves in a profound sigh as eyelids lift slowly and seek the gaze that has snatched her from slumber.

“You’re staring at me again.”

“Can’t help it. You’re mesmerizing.”

A sleepy giggle. “There you go again. Who even uses words like that? Mesmerizing.”

You shrug somewhat coyly. “But you love me for it.” It’s a statement but you’re asking for reassurance.

She stretches her body, sore from the sex, and beckons you to join her in bed. You don’t get the reassurance you want, but then again, you never do. She’s not one to waste idle breath on something as trivial as your insecurities. The invitation to her bed is assurance enough, so you take it, because you have no choice, and climb in with her. You grab a fistful of red hair and kiss her, your frustrations finding an outlet in the pleasures of handling her roughly. You want to punish her, but she enjoys her punishments—prefers it this way even—and this aggravates you even more. It’s endless, this devils’ circle. You want to break free but you know, the moment her lips touch your sex, that you are bound to her with emotional chains that won’t break no matter the pain she puts you through. Perhaps, you wonder fuzzily as the familiar stirrings of pleasure begin to envelop you, perhaps this is her way of punishing you, too.

She asks that question again. “Can your husband make you feel this way?”

You feel her hot breath on the most sensitive part of you. She has you at her mercy; you both know it. Hands grip sheets. You mewl a negative, and finally she says those words again; the words that you always wait to hear because it keeps you going when you think you want to give up.

This is love.”

***

You sit on the side of the bed, stripping your clothes off. I smile contentedly and wrap my arms around you, kissing the arch of your neck.

“I missed you,” I murmur into your skin. Closing my eyes, I inhale your scent and nip your neck slightly. It’s a mixture of smoke and vanilla; a thick heady scent that gets my heart skipping and beating faster; along with that other scent that sends a shiver of yearning through the pit of my stomach and stirs up my manhood, but not for you.

You twist away and smile. “I’m gonna take a bath.”

I lie back and watch as you stand up and walk over to the bathroom. You’re a tall woman, just an inch under my own height. Short dark hair accentuates your neck and you move with the lissom grace of a stalking predator, belying your very tender and really quite naïve nature. I think that is what has always intrigued me about you. You give off that air of an independent woman, but really all you want is to be cared for. You’re like a child in that sense and it has always been that boost to my ego to care for you and protect you from the world’s cruelty. Although it seems that I can’t protect you from myself, and Lord knows that I wish I could.

You don’t close the bathroom door properly, and through it I catch glimpses of your milky white limbs as you prepare your bath and get into it. A sense of déjà vu washes over me and I’m taken to another time, another place. Another woman.

A while later I’m awakened after dozing off, when you crawl into bed beside me, fresh and sweet smelling with damp hair. I shift and lie on my side, propping myself up with an elbow so you can curl up against me and nestle in the curve of my arm. Your eyes drift shut and your breasts heave in that sigh of end of the day exhaustion. I gaze at you for what seems like hours, going over the features I am so familiar with, drinking in the shadows cast over your cheekbones by long dark eyelashes; your rosy complexion; your cute upturned little nose; your lips, neither thin nor full, but somewhere in between and always that turn at the left corner. It gives you a look of perpetual apprehension, like you’re not sure whether to smile trustingly or scowl defensively.

I turn slightly so that I am partially lying on top of you. Bare skin against bare skin. You mumble something in your sleep and turn your head, but are otherwise undisturbed. I lay my lips at the base of your throat and run them up lightly until they hover just over yours. I slip my hand under the pillow the same moment I kiss you fully. A flicker of movement, barely perceptible and you gasp. Your body tense, eyes wide, you look at me. You look at me with more acknowledgement than you have in months and a flicker of doubt stabs my heart. In that moment every secret is laid bare, every emotion felt and understood. It’s an eternity and I feel as though my soul is torn out and stretched to reveal everything that I am—all the disappointments and hurt I’ve caused you magnified infinitely. Finally, your body relaxes and slumps. Your head lolls to the side, hand falling limply over the bedside.

I’m not sure if I comprehend what I’ve just done. There is a minute in which stunned silence fills the room. Then I retrieve my mobile from the bedside table and slide to unlock. I dial the number. I pace in front of the curtained windows, bare feet pattering on the carpeted floor. I think of what to say.

Beep, beep. Beep, beep.

Click.

“Hello?” Her voice is sleepy but it’s still rife with seduction, the same voice that had earlier proclaimed love for the woman now lying in my bed.

As we speak, glazed cerulean eyes stare accusingly at me. Her arm stretches out in an unheard plea of mercy and the liquid that has pooled at her throat and run down, staining her skin sinfully, begins seeping through the sheets, until the first drops reach the edge and begin to fall upon the carpet—red on red—in a steady drip, drip as insistent as a leaking tap.

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