Troyler short stories

Bedsheets

You.

You open your eyes and smile to yourself at the sky outside because you don't understand Monday mornings and you turn and press your nose into my skin. You sneak hands around my back to my belly button to the centre of my chest and prop your chin onto my shoulder and brush your smooth cheek against my stubble while I cling to the edges of sleep like the blanket you're nudging down my waist. 'Honey' you hum in that voice like you're playing Happy Families and are getting up to make lunchboxes for the kids. 'Honey, are you awake yet?' In my mind I moan your name but my voice hasn't awoken yet so I murmur unhappy sounds into the pillow. You knock cold feet into my ankles (how are they cold after a night where you steal the bed covers) and squeeze me and this is when the sunlight infiltrates my eyelids and I can see the shape of you leaping to clamber on top of me, the blanket now around my thighs. I shiver and you run your thumbs over the lines of frown on my face. You've picked up my glasses, sat up bare-chested, and you tell me to look at you. You don't understand Monday mornings, I think. You press heavily into my hipbones and I groan as you dance fingers up your chest and ruffle your hair. You grab my hands like puppet-strings and let me feel your skin, down, down, to down under your boxers...I pull my arms back and drop them over my eyes. You laugh and kiss the cross made by my forearms. You pat my belly and wiggle your bottom as you stand up, taking the bedcovers with you into the kitchen. I don't fall back asleep.

You fall back asleep. Three times. You understand Sunday mornings.

You swing out from where I hold your waist then curl into my collarbone, making a bed for yourself where we stand waiting for the elevator. I answer your nonsensical questions and thoughts as best I can and pull my jacket further around your shoulders, secretly thrilling in your weight pressed against mine, in getting to hold you, though it's me you've let carry you home, drunk or sleepy or drunk and sleepy, for five years now. Five, four, three, two, one... 'Home,' you sing and tumble against the mirror. 'Not here,' I say. You stare into your reflection and pull me to your side, turn at my side, and smile in your angelic-devil way as you reach to kiss my hairline. 'Let's fuck in front of the mirror,' you whisper, tugging teeth around my earlobe. You're wrapping yourself around me when the doors open and the single mother from two doors down appears, eyes wide with surprise and a hint of polite laughter. You fall onto the couch. 'Not here,' I say. You slide down against the bathtub, toothbrush in mouth. 'Not here!' I repeat, turning off the taps you'd left on. You practically fall asleep standing up between the doors of your wardrobe. I tuck you into bed, kiss your temple, turn off the light, but the second I pull my shirt over my head and (with a small wobble) slip off my socks, I catch you watching, sudden bright eyes peering over your fists holding the blanket. You're all wriggly and warm and awake and I can't fight you anymore, you're all toothy-grins and I love your toothy-grins, but the second I surrender and untangle myself from your kiss and limbs to stumble to the bedside draw, you're asleep, drooling into the space where you'd called me 'the best boyfriend.'

'Yeah, love you too,' you say, waiting for the elevator, one hand texting, one hand pushing me away, as I drunkenly lean into you full of how beautiful you are.

You're bouncing up against the cushions, legs spread, hitched to my waist, sweaty palms pressed to your sweaty forehead then to my sweaty back. 'Baby, did you phone for the electrician today?' I nod. I moan as you thrust your hips up. 'Good, because I can't stand that flickering light...' You cradle my head and encourage me deeper. I bite my lip and my thighs quiver, clutching for purchase on your ass. 'Did I put the washing on?!' You gasp as I gasp in pleasure, dropping my head to your chest. You rub fingertips into my scalp. 'I think I did...A little to the left...'Cos you need your suit trousers for tomorrow.' Your muscles tighten and I groan at the wet warmth enveloping me, the sticky cum from your cock pressing into my stomach. You drum your fingers distractedly on my head. Picking up my pace, I raise my head and clear my throat. 'Did my parcel arrive?' 'Oh yes! It's on the table.' We kiss and fuck ourselves through orgasm then I heat up the oven and load the dishwasher as you fold out the ironing board, naked beneath your silky robe.