I visited Law's little den every weekend. In the past I would read my book at night. I would read fast and devour pages like chips, one after the other and mostly science fiction. But with Law around, even when he wasn't around, I read less.
"I can't do Sunday," I told Belle over the phone after work on Friday. "Can we make it Saturday?"
"Can't do Sunday? Come on, Perry. Why not?"
"I have—I'm meeting another friend."
"Another friend? Who?"
"Just a—a friend from work," I said.
"Okay ..." Belle paused. "Well next time feel free to bring him along." There was a wink in her voice. I hadn't told her it was a him, but she knew somehow. It was Belle's way to know without asking.
On the fourth weekend of visiting Law—we kissed. He didn't own a television, so we were on the couch and he was reading part of an article he wrote on this trap music festival far too trendy for my taste. He stopped midway and looked at me. Then he took my face in his hands and kissed me, gentle and hard, a fluctuating melody.
He lit me up just as he did his cigarette, with cavalier ease and hands that knew what they were doing.
Two weeks later his hands didn't stop, they kept going and I let them. Law was perfect. I never wanted him to stop touching me. Even when I got home I could feel his skin imprinted on mine.
YOU ARE READING
Law of Dreams
Короткий рассказLaw was perfect-it seemed. Tousled hair. Sharp wit. Trendy apartment. Trendy everything. He demanded attention without even opening his mouth. So why did being with him feel like losing yourself? A short story about new relationships-the wrong and t...
