REM - H.S.

Chapter 2

WARNING: This chapter hints at drug use, overdose, and suicide.

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"You do know that working in a bakery for a year doesn't make you a certified chef, don't you?"

We were sitting in the kitchen after a long night of sex, talking, and resting in front of her book-shelf as she picked out books one by one to tell me what she loved about them. I read each title, listened intently, hung onto every word that left her lips. 

She made it so easy.

She was always trying to get me to read books that she had read and fallen in love with. I always initially refused, but only to make her more desperate and eager to explain all of the incredible things she loved about it. Whatever book she was ranting about on a particular day I would go out and snag a copy and read it in its entirety. She doesn't know that of course. I don't want her to. I like it when she bugs me.

I would read the yellow-pages if she asked me to.

One of the first nights that I came to her place I browsed her bookshelf and noticed one spine that was particularly worn, particularly loved, particularly appreciated. I tried to take a closer look but its name was undecipherable to me.

Strange. Familiar.

She has always been so obsessive about the books that she reads, but I suppose she is like that with everything she is passionate about. Music, vinyl, literature, sex. She loves the details, the little things that make your experiences so much better when you take the time to appreciate them. Like how old books are more impactful than recent prints; she says it's something about the smell. Or how the sound quality of vinyl gives you a particular richness and depth that ordinary CD's lack, something about listening the way the artist intended.

Incredibly visceral, quite intentional. That's her.

"Oh please, baby, midnight snacks are my forte" I say.

She shoots me a doubtful look.

"Besides, last time you tried to cook for us you managed to set my oven on fire. At least I have some experience" I chuckle.

Don't kid yourself, she knows more than you ever will. 

Her eyes widen in offense with a slight smile on her face, but she quickly replaces that expression with one of faux hurt as she furrows her brows and slightly juts out her bottom lip. 

"That's not very nice, bug. I just wanted a snack, not a critique of my culinary skill" she pouts.

Come on baby, you're tougher than that.

I take a moment to look at her.

She's sat on the counter with her legs dangling far from the floor.

Tiny.

She sits in nothing but her panties and my t-shirt, hair messy, skin still flushed.

Satisfied. Malleable.

I stood opposite of her and leaned back against the counter with my hands resting on the surface behind me. My eyes trailed from her face, then down to her neck which was covered in faint bruises from both my fingertips and my lips. I shifted my gaze down to her bare thighs, then to her exposed silky legs, and then back up to her face.

Her lips were still red, swollen, her eyes still had that post-orgasm haze.

My girl was tough as nails, she liked it rough just as much as she liked it soft, the marks on her body were proof of that. I knew she liked my teasing banter, and I knew she wasn't offended by my jab at her, she just wanted attention.