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A soft whimper, and that’s the end (at last; I thought I was going to be in there for hours). She lies back and I collapse a little, because I’m not as strong as I look. She pushes gently on my shoulders and I roll off her and collapse, my arms splayed out and my fingers hanging over the edge of the bed.
There’s breathing for a while. It’s not mine- I don’t breathe loud. I barely breathe at all. Girls have mentioned it before; I breathe in, and then two minutes later I breathe out.
She breathes deeply and squirms a little, but it might just be for show. Frankly, I didn’t feel I was at my best tonight, but it’s been a long New Year’s Eve. I recall drinking apple-juice and champagne, and someone was emptying a vodka bottle into it-there was a countdown- and a new party, and a conversation about my hat- and then-
And then we somehow ended up here, in my little room on my little bed, and my fingers, which are shorter and stubbier than a writers should be nonetheless worked some kind of magic (I suspect it’s something ancient and druidic, like sacrificing children with a sickle) and then I was in too deep to go back. There was just an ocean of blood to wade through (metaphorically, thank God) before I eventually give up, angle myself a little lower and steeper and spend a few rough seconds driving away until her resolve to hold out for something decent collapses and she gives that little whimper and I give a little shudder.
The sheets are tangled around my legs- the bed wasn’t made this morning- and the heat coming through the window is carrying the noise of the party that’s still going on downstairs. My housemates are yelling about something. I think they’re spraying each other with the hose, because every now and then I hear a little avalanche of droplets, starting soft and rising dramatically to a speedy beat across the corrugated iron outside my window.
She’s called Annie, and she’s suddenly less attractive. It’s a strange phenomena- suddenly the nose is maybe too piggish, the eyes less soulful and blanker. The mouth, which hours ago I would have sworn betrayed a certain vulnerability underneath her romanticism, is now wide and childlike.
She’s a nice girl. When I was drinking Wipeout straight from the bottle, and it wasn’t too hot and I was less empty, I thought she was special.
Now she’s just sweating and naked, and there’s less of me and more of her. When she leaves in the morning I won’t ask for her number, and when she heads down the stairs I can hear her running.
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Razor Sharp