The Marks They Leave Behind

July

He moved on in July.

(Or at least he tried to.)

That night, Henry dreamt he was back in his apartment. Elizabeth lay beneath him in bed; her skin glistened with moonlight and sweat; her hair fanned out around her in a wonderfully dishevelled mess. He braced himself on his forearms and then brushed back the strands of hair that stuck to her brow before he dipped down to capture her lips in another lingering kiss. His tongue stroked the roof of her mouth, and as she moaned into him, her hips undulated up to meet his.

When he broke the kiss, a string of saliva stretched between their lips. He stared down at her: her eyes closed, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted. God, she was perfect. And then he turned his attention to her neck. He nuzzled her throat, and then alternated kissing and grazing his teeth over her skin. Meanwhile, her fingertips danced up the muscles of his back, eliciting a shiver, and she threaded her fingers through his hair and held him against her. He could almost taste the tang of salt in her sweat, but as his mind tangled in that thought, the lack of taste, he found himself slipping, the dream fading. He clung to it, clung to her, and trailed his lips down her throat, pausing to nip at her collarbone and then suckle at her pulse before he descended the valley between her breasts.

"Henry..." Her voice was soft and breathy. She tugged at his hair, drawing out a sweet sting.

It spurred him on. Open-mouthed kisses led the way down, down, down, over the soft curve of her stomach, down, down, down.

"Henry..." That whispering plea again.

He wanted to taste her, he wanted to inhale her, he wanted to watch her writhing beneath him.

"Henry." Something in her tone changed.

He stilled and looked up at her.

She stared back at him. Her pupils were so wide that black had engulfed blue, and she gazed at him with an expression he hadn't seen before, so soft, so tender, so cautious yet unyielding.

She cupped his face and caressed his cheekbone with a sweep of her thumb. "I love you."

With that, he awoke. Jolted back to Pittsburgh and the shadows of his bedroom.

His erection was throbbing, his body ached for release, but rather than chasing that high, he rolled onto his side, and with the crisp white sheet clutched around him, he waited for his arousal to subside. I love you. Her words echoed through every recess of his mind. I love you. He could almost feel the warmth of her body radiating against him and the soft-firm-smoothness of her skin. I love you. He closed his eyes and prayed that when he opened them he would find himself with her again. I love you.

But she had gone. The darkness pressed in. And he'd never felt so alone.

He tossed back the sheet, swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat in a hunch at the edge of the mattress. With his feet planted firmly against the cool wooden floorboards and his elbows propped to his knees, he scrubbed the dregs of sleep from his face. The night around him hung so still and silent that he could hear the distant sound of freight train wheels churning along the tracks. It felt like he was the only person alive to witness it. Maybe he was the only person alive to witness it. Time could have frozen except for him and that train and he would never know.

The mind could do strange things when the world turned dark and you found yourself alone.

He lowered his hands and stared vacantly out into the room, and as his eyes adjusted, the black shadows dissolved into deep blue.