‘I think he’s dead.’
‘He hasn’t moved in a while.’
‘Why don’t you check?’
‘Fuck you, I don’t wanna lose my hand.’
‘Pussy. I’ll go check.’
The best thing about wearing bulky jackets and layers upon layers of clothing, Guy thinks, is that it perfectly hides your breathing. There’s a method behind it, you see. You can just breathe the tiniest bit of air in, and hold it, and slowly release. And you take some in, and you get them out again. Slowly, slow-ly…
Until the footsteps are directly behind you and you spring back to life.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing.” Guy growls out, holding the other person’s arm in a death grip. A headache’s already happily pounding away inside his skull, and Guy’s never been an agreeable drunk.
“Checking up on you, what else.” A light, even tone replies, rather sarcastically, in fact.
Guy immediately lets go and slumps back on the bar counter. “Don’t sneak up on me when I’m drunk.”
“What, like I would’ve done better tapping you on the arm from the other side of that counter?” She snorts. “Better my hand than my face.”
“I won’t hit you.” he mutters into his jacket-clad arm.
“Killer reflexes.”
“I won’t. Hit you.” he grits out.
A small palm gently presses on his sweat-slicked nape. “I believe you.”
Guy slowly exhales. He pulls his head up from the counter’s cold surface and pulls her to him with a lazy arm. The angle is awkward, but it’s all right.
Small hands slip into the opening in his jacket and rest on top of his chest. He buries his face on her side and breathes her in. Lavender fabric conditioner. He hugs her tighter.
Gentle fingers muss up his hair. “Let’s go home.” she whispers.
|Originally written: January 07, 2023
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Choice Cuts
Short StorySweetest Decay, Series 1 A collection of my short stories I first published in my writing blog, Sweet Decay.
