Fingertips | ✓

eight

I tried to convince myself it wasn't too early for a drink but I failed miserably as I stared at the clock which read fifteen past twelve, just after noon, thinking how many hours I had left to drink my way into oblivion.

I should have known you'd never call. You said you'd been tied up with work, that you'd been busy all week and I shouldn't have bought your poor excuse since you didn't bother to elaborate on the busyness of your week other than the fact that you had a deadline to meet when I decided to surprise you at your office.

The silence was killing me, Bradley. Why couldn't you just sense that and text me? I had held in my urge all week to text you but I told myself that this time I would not initiate the first step. You would. I knew you would. You promised.

I thought I knew you would. I always thought the best about you but you keep disappointing me, Bradley. Sometimes I wished you'd stop it, whatever you were doing to me. You weren't aware of your exact effect on me but it was wearing me thin, breaking down my walls and wrecking me like that ball Miley Cyrus came riding on in her music video that went viral.

I giggled, thinking of how I could relate to the video—to the pain stabbing lyrics.

I will always want you. I can't a live a lie, running for my life. I will always want you.

I threw my head back, all humour dissipating into the sombre air that was quick to replace the atmosphere in my living room. I placed my wine glass on the coaster on my coffee table before I looked back up at the ceiling and closed my eyes.

I remembered the feel of your touch. I remembered how your long fingers danced on my skin, your motions slow and deliberate, your touch a seductive bliss. I remembered how you cupped my elbows and drew me closer. I remembered the feel of your stubble against my cheek, the feel of your nose momentarily brushing mine.

I remembered those lips.

Suddenly I was filled with a certain buzz.

Fuck waiting around. You were an arse, you weren't going to send me a message. But this was not the end. I could still fix this. I could still have you, whatever you had to offer was okay for me.

I fumbled with my phone and opened our messages. I intended to send a message saying 'I love you' but autocorrect turned love to live and I had pressed sent before I could even read over the text. The mistake make me pause. It wasn't false.

I did live you. You were all I wanted to breathe, Bradley. But you were deadly to my health and wellbeing.

Perhaps you were my kryptonite.

Too drunk to drive, I caught a cab and made my way to your house. The drive whizzed past my eyes. I could always hold my drink but I'd had a couple more glasses than I intended to drink and with the fresh rush of adrenaline pumping within me I wanted to face you again.

I wanted to see you. I wanted to touch you. I wanted to kiss you. I wanted all of you.

My fingers pressed the bell repeatedly before my fist knocked down on your door, my voice carrying down into your home, "Bradley... Sweetheart, open the door."

When no reply came my way, I raised my voice. "Oi Bradley! It's Curry. Babe, seriously."

I waited for a whole minute this time. Perhaps you were in the middle of something and were on your way to the door. But when the minute ticked into two, my patience was long gone.

"Open the fucking door!"

Maybe it was the alcohol in my system—no, it was most definitely the alcohol speaking. If I were in my right mind I would not have come here, I would not have demanded you to open up the door in this manner. Or so I told myself.