Joey&Chandler

uncertain (1)

I hate him for what he's done to me. I hate him for every straying eye and wayward hand and muffled breath. I hate him for every woman I've passed by. Every man I've passed by.

I hear the keys in the lock and the doorknob turn; my nerves are dancing wildly; blood in my ears, pounding, pounding, pounding; my hands begin to sweat and I feel as though I've run miles and miles barefoot over gravel and this is my endless hell. An unquenchable thirst amidst fire and brimstone. Sometimes I wonder why I run at all.

He scans the apartment, but I know it's clear. I've made sure. I cross the room with superhuman speed and crush him against the door. My hands are in his hair, digging into his back, and I groan in frustration as my endeavors can't seem to bring him close enough. His lips are soft and inviting and I taste him eagerly, pressing closer until his chest is heaving and he's gasping for breath.

"Fuck, Joey," he rasps.

I never talk. I can't talk. I just grip him tighter. Harder. Desperately.

He must feel the urgency in me, because before I know it, my back's against the refrigerator and his lips are silencing my thoughts. I don't have many thoughts anyway.

Through his ministrations, through our fervor, I can hear a knock at the door. We both freeze. He straightens his tie, I re-zip my pants, and time stands still. My nerves are still dancing.

It's everybody. And when they come in, I'm watching Jeopardy and Chandler is binging on barbeque potato chips, leaning over the counter to poke fun at my choice of Friday night entertainment.

They don't suspect a thing.