autobiography // h.s. au (sequel to the writer)

chapter 1

Harry

Oh, Man. I'm so lucky. So, so lucky. She's standing at the back of the crowd and her too-long fringe is nearly obstructing her view of me, but she's smiling and giddy just like every other time she's watched me. I don't look anywhere else; all I see is her. I keep talking as if she's the only one listening, like we're at home sitting on the couches in the living room, she's in the arm chair with her legs crossed while she listens to me read her the draft of a chapter in the book I'm working on. She always smiles when I read, and she tells me it's because every word is like an ode to her and she finds it funny that I don't notice what I've written. She says that every little detail somehow links back to something she's done. She loves it.

Her eyes are closed. She's so content with listening, like all she wants to hear is the rasp of my voice. I'm nearing the end of the chapter, and I don't want to be finished because being finished means I go back to the real world, where she's not so content with me, and I can then see the boredom that fills her eyes. I won't get to stare at her and imagine her as innocent or think of her as someone who purely feels love for me and nothing else.

The chapter's ending, and my words are slowing. The dialogue is too short, and the parenthesis I put in is so stupidly unnecessary. But the words are closing in, and my head seems to be slowing everything around me. The chapter's ending, and then reading is nearly over, and my life is starting up again.

It ends, and people clap, but the person who I want to clap is just purely staring. Her lips press into a tight what-is-the-point-of-this smile. It's heartless, which is ironic because everything I feel for her is from my heart, all my love.

I walk down from the temporary stage and every one stands from their seats and moves to get to me and shake my hand, to congratulate me on all I've written and express their hope for a future novel just as amazing. I shake so many hands: rough and dry, sweaty and soft. None feel like her hands, which are always soft, never sweaty. They run along my body like silk.

When I get to the back of the store where she's been standing I feel her hand run along my arm and down to my hand. She's always done it, find my hand after a reading. There's always a heap of people who run up to me after and all either of us either wanted was to leave without the hassle of thanking everyone complimenting me. She's bombarded with comments like, "You're so lucky to have such a smart boyfriend," and, "He must be the most amazing man to have a conversation with," to which she replies with a forced chuckle and an, "I know."

She leans up to my ear and says, "I just want to go home. Get me home." And it doesn't have an underlying implication of sex, because she doesn't want me like that anymore. She just wants to go home so she can get into our bed and bury herself under the white covers.

"I'll get you home," I loudly whisper in her ear.