The waitress is brunette. She looks French. Petit. Stuck-up. She refuses to look at me, and no matter how intently I stare at her, she avoids my gaze. Undressing and possessing her as she collects empties and cleans tables, I imagine her dancing in a room the colour of blood. It’s the same colour as her pussy, although not as warm. Inside. Within. Utero. All those words that describe what I require most. She is the door; she is the place of knowing that undermines all I am. Somewhere inย those hours that dissolve like ice in a tumbler of whisky, the two of us pass down a corridor between the entrance to the kitchens and the men’s toilets. She looks down at the floor, and as she comes to within a few feet of me, she scans the wall pretending not to notice my presence. But this won’t do; it won’t do at all. There are no words, only the shifting of my feet as I block her way. She doesn’t act surprised. In fact, she just stands there waiting for my next move. My teeth on edge as her body pulsates just inches from mine; there’s so much energy between us that it takes all I have to stop myself from losing control. She needs me in her, needs someone to hold her tight, but I’m just a monster. I’m evil. There’s no love in my touch, only brutality. Raising her eyes to mine at long last, she appears so tender and weak, but there’s passion in her, a passion that would smother me in an instant given half the chance. And what it would feel like to give myself again to those brown eyes; to surrender to such lucid elements. Buried beneath my rage, the me I know is still alive, but I’m not sure what he looks like as it’s been so long since he’s been able to spread his wings. Growing in size, my mouth opens at the sight of her bra beneath a crisp white shirt as she smiles despite her best attempts not to. Those nipples of hers, they will surely melt away my fears. One Sunday morning, when the days are calmer as she pushes me down without fear, they will mark our transition from strangers to lovers. It’s part of the cycle; part of the wheel that’s still turning after all these years.

8 replies »

  1. Yep I’m with Rachel, quickening pulse definitely and the picture doesn’t help (or does, depending!). ๐Ÿ™‚

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