REDAMANCY [h.s. au]

01

*mentions of poor mental health
*mention of death of a family member

"I also think there's a point in which it becomes too late to help some people: that there's a time past which the damage has calcified so completely that there's no undoing it." - Hanya Yanagihara

⭑Holland⭑

For a mere second, the feel of warm skin against mine lulls me back into a daze of sleepiness, the kind that engulfs lazy, rainy Sunday mornings. Pale blue morning light filters through white curtains and the rhythmic breathing of the man whose arms I'm wrapped in have me in a dreamlike haze.

It's morning and I'm wrapped in someone's tight embrace.

Fuck.

Like someone dumped a bucket of cold water on me, my eyes are open wide and I'm jolted up, prying his hands off of me. The vulnerability of the position has me wanting to vomit up my dinner from the night before.

That might also be all the booze I consumed talking.

Most likely the nauseating combination of both.

Once I've made it out of his firm embrace successfully, I search the floor for my jeans that were practically ripped off my body last night in a fit of lust.

I spot them hiding under the bed, all crumpled up and reeking of cigarettes.

I just need to put them on to be able to walk home.

The smell of them almost has me retching now, too. But, I shimmy them up by legs, happy that they're baggy and at the very least, comfortable enough to walk home in as opposed to other pants I could have chosen from.

I throw the blouse I wore last night into my purse, lucky for me it's a light, thin material and easily fits. Rummaging through the drawers of his mahogany dresser, I find some old t shirt at the bottom that he won't miss or even notice is gone. It's only once I have it on that I notice it's a tattered Arsenal shirt. In any other circumstance, I would never be found dead in an Arsenal jersey, being a lifelong Chelsea fan myself. But, I figure if it's at the bottom back corner, he doesn't wear it much and won't miss it. My slouchy brown coat will cover it anyway as I walk the streets of London feeling like an traitor.

I tiptoe across the floor, careful not to make any noise. The last thing I want is an interaction with him that will inevitably be awkward.

Just as I'm almost to the orange armchair that my long coat is draped over in the corner, I trip over his fucking shoe, making a loud bang as I catch myself. The bang is like a nail in the coffin as I hear sheets rustling and a loud yawn.

This was, of course, avoidable if I'd just followed my own rules-if I'd simply left at 2 a.m. like I intended to. Sleeping with someone-and no, I'm not referring to sex-is far too intimate for me. I avoid intimacy and love and all that bullshit. They've only ever pierced my flesh and bled me out.

"Hey, where are you going?" He asks me, reaching his hands out like a toddler that wants something.

"I have to get home," I start, "I have a cat who won't be happy I've missed her prompt breakfast time." It's not a lie exactly, except her breakfast time isn't for another hour.

"Stay. Let me make you breakfast or something," he insists, getting out of bed and pulling his plaid briefs up.

"I don't do breakfast," I state, my voice bright and clear.

Breakfast after a libidinous night together is like the start of a romantic comedy. I can see it in my head now. Boy and girl meet at a bar, they flirt all night, he takes her home, they have mind-blowing sex, they wake up, he makes her pancakes and coffee, they realize they actually enjoy each others company.