don't worry, i did not die; severely unedited
This time I woke up, she hadn't slipped away in the shadowy cover that night provided. Her clothes still lay in various parts of my room, and if I remembered correctly, her bra was hanging from the edge of my flat-screen tv out in the living room. Her soft breath bristles against my skin, a reminder of her presence, as if the electrifying touch of her skin against mine wasn't enough.
After the chocolate cake, the night had slipped into other indulgences, and Carmen was definitely experienced enough to fill the time wisely. My body was sore from remembering everything that happened, but even as an ache settled in my limbs, I didn't want to move from my position. If I woke her, she would most definitely leave. I wasn't ready for that just yet.
My mind flickers back to conversation I overheard momentarily, but I push those thoughts away with the memory of her lips against mine. I had decided to respect her secrets, and I was going to stand by that decision.
It took twenty three minutes for her to wake up after me, the rustle of her silky black hair alerting me to her consciousness.
"What time is it?" she asks softly, bringing her hand up to rub against her left eye.
"Nearly seven in the morning. Why?" I answer, a lopsided grin forming on my face at her grogginess.
"I'm going back to sleep. Wake me up at a more acceptable hour," she commands, burrowing her face into my pillow.
"Come on! New day! So much potential!" I exclaim, grazing my finger against her arm carefully.
"Your peppiness disgusts me," she groans, turning to face me once more. "Shut the fuck up."
"You know the perfect way to do that baby," I whisper, leaning into press my lips against hers.
"Nope, absolutely not. Your morning breath is not nearly as attractive as you'd like to believe it is," Carmen grumbles, pushing me away firmly.
"I can think of other things to do with my mouth," I mutter. "Other parts of your body will be much more accepting."
"How the fuck are you this horny at seven in the fucking morning?" Carmen questions, as my finger trailed down to stroke her abdomen.
"You're telling me you don't feel it? The desire? The palpable tension?" I look up into her eyes, my mischief mirrored in her expression.
"You have ten minutes before I stab you with my stiletto heel to make you shut the fuck up," she concedes, her lips pursing at the little force behind her threat.
"Better get to work then," I smile.
It was another hour or two before either of us made it out of the bed, and we would've gone longer if it wasn't for the incessant ringing of her phone.
I tried not to listen, I really did, but her voice carries really well when I press my ear against the bathroom door.
"They moved up the delivery? I don't like this, Mark," I hear her mutter in a low voice. "I understand how important this is, but we can't just go in there blind!"
She pauses, and I can feel her anger bubbling from underneath the crevice of the door.
"What can he do about it? Absolutely not," she replies back, her voice firm. "I am not getting attached. It's just too risky."
It was three seconds before she cut Mark off again, and I could hear her frustration growing.
"Fuck you, Mark," she hisses, the sharp thud of her phone against my granite countertop following the sound of her voice. I scramble back towards my bed, pulling a pair of sweats on, as I ungracefully hop towards the kitchen. As I pull out some eggs and toast, waiting for the sound of my bathroom door clicking open, I try to keep my brain from straying into thinking about her conversation. It was seeming to get more and more impossible as each second stretched forward.
When she finally re-emerged, she had donned her clothes from last night: a bad sign. She sweeps her black hair into a tight ponytail, her green eyes studying me with remorse.
"I have to go, Everett," she declares after a few moments, the finality in her voice indicating that it meant more than what she was actually saying.
"Why?" I call out hoarsely, a pit forming in my stomach. She looks away at the broken sound of my voice, her eyes trained steadily on my hardwood floor.
"I'm sorry," was the only answer she gave me as she turned the doorknob to leave my apartment. The slow whine of the door hitting my doorframe marked the beginning of an unbearable silence that sunk into my muscles and clawed at my throat.
Why the fuck was this happening? I didn't get attached. And I've only known Carmen for less than a week.
Rationality didn't matter to the fire that burned through my body, the throbbing of my muscles beckoning me to pound my fists against something, anything. I couldn't speak, I couldn't scream, but I wanted to. I wanted to cry out in any kind of pain, but my voice was getting pushed down by the silence, the inescapable silence.
Why did my heart hurt like this?
