We Are Not Good People

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She’s a great kisser, but these blisters on my feet won’t pop themselves. She thinks it’s disgusting, but as I take the needle in hand and pass it back and forth through the flame of my lighter, the relief that washes over me as they burst is almost immeasurable. The way the juice flows down my toes- jeez, it’s something else entirely. Sure, it doesn’t have the finesse of being between her legs, but I’ve always been a seedy one, and the dirtier something is, the better. It’s 2: 19 am. We’ve been home an hour and now she’s being sick in the bathroom. Too many glasses of wine, you see. We both drank the same amount, but whereas she brings it back up, I tend to go quiet. Like a serial killer, she says. I always ask her which one, but she never gives me the pleasure of a response. Going in to check on her, I lift the hair from her face and flush the toilet as she brings up the several glasses of Chardonnay. The restaurant was this Italian recommended to us by her brother. It was expensive, and although I couldn’t afford it, I knew it would make her happy to wear her favourite dress in such a fine place. She doesn’t need to prove her beauty, but it was nice to see her look so radiant. So full of life. And we didn’t argue, either, which is a bonus. So I wipe her mouth and take her in my arms. Stumbling down the hallway, I place her on the bed and roll her onto her side. Grabbing the waste paper bin from beneath my desk, I pop it next to her just in case she feels the need to go again in the night. I would join her, but there’s writing to be done, and if the words don’t flow it’s bad for both of us. So she falls asleep in my arms, and after several minutes I slip away and go out for a smoke while drinking a miniature whisky left over from last Christmas. It plays havoc with my belly, but my drunken state is revived at once. Sucking down the smoke, I look up at the moon then close my eyes thinking about the woman sitting over at the next table. Tried not to. Tried ignoring those curls of hair she kept playing with, but the lure of something exotic was just too hard to deny. I’m not a bad man, but when a beautiful woman looks my way, her gaze ignites me in a manner that goes against what I am. And what am I, exactly? My legs turning to jelly, the ground opens up and swallows me- it pulls me under just how the scent of a sweet perfume draws me closer to that which should be left alone.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.co.uk

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.com

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