#fridayflash, wordbunches every Friday. Now made with at least 25% recycled material. This week’s prompt is “inspired by a song released in 2013”.
It’s just turned midnight and I am missing you like mad.
I’m lying awake in my bed for the fifth night this week, and I’ve no doubt I’ll make it to seven. The last time I slept properly in this house was over a month ago, just before you posted that torn-off scrap of notepad paper telling me you were moving away, and that you wouldn’t ring again. I thought we had more than that.
I know we were never serious. That’s how we liked it. You would phone me on a blocked number, late at night, and then come round to my place. (I suggested yours a couple of times, but you’d just hang up.) In the morning, just as the sky turned from black to peach, we would emerge into the crisp, cold air. You’d jump on the back of my Triumph, and I’d race you though the city, the street lights disappearing as we soared. You’d get off near the high street, and I’d watch your stacked heels fade into the distance before I set off back home. Variations on a theme, plotted so we’d never get too close.
Maybe that’s why you left. You saw the way I looked at you as you padded around the house, entranced by the patch of skin between the hem of your shirt (my shirt) and the top of your knee socks. I held you too tight when we spooned, kissed your neck too much, laughed too hard at the way you phrased things, and lingered too long after the night had ended.
Or maybe the reason you left was nothing to do with me. Somehow, that’s worse.
The clock’s now gone far beyond three, and I’m more awake than ever. I’m trying to remember what we talked about. We talked about a lot. Your dirty mouth went a mile a minute, and your dirty mind worked even faster. But the words died on our ears, and none of what we said was as important as the softness of your milk skin and your chocolate hair, and the taste of your mouth against mine.
The last time I saw you, you were agitated. You paced around the room, and you avoided my eye, but when I asked what was wrong you threw the question back in my face, so I stayed silent. You muttered and mumbled about some daytime television programme you saw, so you could avoid saying what you needed to, and when you fucked me, you hid yourself behind your long hair, and jumped away as soon as I finished, pulling on your clothes whilst you told me you had to get up early in the morning. I leant over to kiss you on the shoulder, and to try to make you stay, but as son as I got close you pushed me back, scratching my neck in the process. I dropped you in our usual spot and you raced away, without looking back.
Now it’s five-twenty am, and I’m dropping away for just a few hours’ sleep, and the last thing on my mind as I fall is the tension in the elastic, and the feel of the cotton against my fingers, and the sound of your laughter, as I pull off your knee socks, then pull you closer to me.
Arctic Monkeys – AM (2013)
A Touch of Cloth 2: Undercover Cloth (Sky TV, 2013)
Young Avengers, by Kieron Gillen and Jamie McKelvie, et al (2013)
p style=”text-align:justify;” align=”JUSTIFY”>If you want to join in with #fridayflash, great! Around 500 words is best. Either send me a link to its page on your site, or as a .doc or .rtf attachment. Email it to firstname.lastname@example.org with the subject header SUB: #fridayflash, and I’ll post it up. No money involved, all rights remain your own. There are no restrictions, but if you want a prompt, next week’s is “obscure Bible story″.