When he kissed her it did not taste like strawberries or chocolate, or whatever the fuck those romance flicks and stories say on how a long-awaited kiss tastes like. This was more; raw, brutally slow. She tasted of smoke, and passion. It combined with the flavor of alcohol, anger, and true agony upon his lips, drawing out a pant of ecstasy from their mouths and igniting stars in their guts.
Rain was now clapping like an elated opera-audience post-crescendo. Waking up hard is one thing, waking up hard and half-wet is outrageous. Having to elaborate in written discourse is frustrating to say the least. Had it ever crossed her mind than breaking a man is so easy anyway, that when it is asked of him to describe in full detail how each broken piece collapsed you can drive him senseless? She always did that, she provoked and teased and needled his deepest fears, then went on to psycho-tropically mess with his responses, thoughts, decisions; even the slightest set of daily activities she infiltrated and forced her presence; atop of that now came the pulsating timbre she delivered when kissed. I can't do it anymore, a well-nursing voice announced. It was the same sound voice that kept him sane throughout his whole life, or well, most of it. The voice that would ordain clarity and inflict little wounds on hundreds of insisting girls. Keep off, the voice had its own warning sign, it was so wise, so conferring, the mother-goose-meets master-Yoda of all voices.
The earlier you realize there's lesser time remaining in your life with each passing day, the more obvious it becomes you don't want to waste it. Contracting a perfect or minor interval by one semitone won't do. Yet saved-up hour usage when you're and old soul in a young body usually comes down to the glibly facile. Easier managed too. For instance, you would most-probably allow yourself to get absorbed into a group of self-indulgent, swashbuckling, essentially shallow and witless bunch of guys who produce armpit farts, go on terrorizing unsuspecting senior strangers at the bus stop and embarrass you in front of the waitress acting all-wise-ass and sexist (my friend here will want to fuck you up the ass, don't let him) and the one among them who far exceeds this hoggish state of early manhood , just because he is simply more perceptive and knowledgeable as any highly-educated parents' son would be. Of course, they all seem to be taking you in, for the fun fact that you are so different but willing to go along, or perhaps because some of what you carry may rub off on them, who knows really; Sometimes you couldn't care less, some others you're disgusted, and many a few you end up feeling lonelier with them than without them. But a guy needs to blow off some steam, right ? Even if he gives the impression that he truly believes in things, even if he wishes his crowd could believe in their own things too, rather than what had been decided for them through societal mimicry. She understood. She had an answer to all his worries, and a caress to every scar. Her sense of freedom, her ideas, radical and fast, emotional, romantic, sometimes crude, tickling, thought provokers (boner elicitors as well). She seemed to have let herself slip into a conformity of some kind, just for the sake of not being left alone in the world. But her secrets, so many of them, so intricately concealed and so eloquently disclosed when she chose to. He was allotted quite a few, always on a whim, in her action-versus-passivity explicitness. He could not decide if that was a fucking impressive thing, or a fucking terrible waste.
Don't text her. He did.
Don't answer her. He did. I've been thinking about it all day too.
Don't go on with this talk. He didn't, and they hung up like old pals. Had she insisted a bit, he would have probably found out about her wet cunt, of how much she wanted him to whisper in her ear and bite her lower lip and hold her till she felt crushed and submitted to him like a bird with a broken wing, and then what a beast she could turn to, eating his heart off his mouth with him hardly protesting at all. She will have you and leave you , my lamb, you need to be protected, switch on your I don't need to know all that shit, will you?
The voice spoke no more and he soon fell asleep, all through the night and half through the day. But now the rain had stopped, the sun carved its path on the glimmering leaves. The mild coolness of the afternoon would soon give way to a fresh, late spring evening, and there was an evident matter coming up between the sheets.