My Funny Valyntine: Book One - The Pull

Chapter Twenty-Six - Quiet Nights of Quiet Stars

i.

She watches him sleep. A stream of dawn's first light pierces the small opening in the curtain to fall across the middle of the bed. He has more scars than she would have guessed. Most of them are oddly shaped, not meeting the usual straight line of a deep cut. The one on his right shoulder reminds her of a broken pane of glass; it's as if his skin had shattered. He had rolled over onto his side sometime after they'd both fallen asleep, his back to her. Sitting up, her knees drawn to her chest, Valyntine studies a sloping, curved scar starting thick and bulbous near his right buttock before thinning, becoming fainter above his hip. Latin stirs.

The idea he might be awake scares her upon realizing she is still naked. As Latin takes in a long, deep breath through his nose she slinks out of bed, reaching for the terry cloth bathrobe.

Latin rolls onto his left side, his barely-open eyes peering at her. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He has more scars on his chest. The sight of them makes her realize how little she knows about him. Their time together, eventful and meaningful as it has been, now feels quite brief.

"Hello," he says to her, sleep making his voice strained and croakish.

"Hey," she says, disappointed in her feeble attempt at levity. To save face, she adds, "How are you?" and winces.

"I'm a little irritated to be honest," he sits up, resting his back on the headboard.

"Irritated?" she asks, nervous.

"All these years and it turns out this was the most comfortable bed in the whole apartment." He smiles wide, hands interlocking behind his head.

Relieved his irritation had nothing to do with her Valyntine gives a forced smile of her own, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

"And how about you?" he asks, his expression turning to one of concern. "You seem... nervous," he says, searching for the right word.

"Yes... no... not nervous, well, it's..." she's growing angry with herself, and the situation, and with Latin. She hates him, hates him for making her feel this way. She's spent her life unsure of herself. Now she cares what this man thinks of her? Now she fumbles over her words because she doesn't want to feel embarrassed around him?

"Would you like me to leave you alone for a while?" he asks as if sensing her thoughts. She watches his face go from his contentment in waking to one of regretful rejection.

"Not sure," she answers, casting her eyes to the ray of light coming through the curtain and the dust particles floating in it. She tries stuffing her hands into the pockets of the robe but can't find them. She put it on so hastily, tying the belt around her waist in such a hurry that it doesn't fit right.

Latin swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up. Unlike her, he has no apparent qualms with being nude.

"Valyntine, if this... if last night wasn't what you wanted...," he trails off, turning to face her. It might have been the first time he has failed to finish a sentence. He crouches down, gathering his clothes, pulling his trousers up. "I'll make coffee," he says, walking to the door. She doesn't stop him.

ii.

As Latin's footsteps quiet with distance Valyntine's thoughts pile in her mind, stacking and shifting over one another. Her chest feels heavy. She sits on the edge of the bed, opening the nightstand drawer and removing the pocket watch. She stares at it, focusing on the scratched and dented face. Her breathing evens and Latin's face swims into view in her mind's eye.

She doesn't know if she regrets their night together. With him, she experienced one of the most confusing, strange, exciting, frightening, emotional, and beautiful experiences of her life.