She lit a cigarette. I loved when she did that. Yeah, it's fuckin' bad, I know. Most people think it's gross. Hell, even I think it's pretty gross. There was just something about the way she did it.
She took a drag, the way she always did after we made love. Laying on the mattress, staring off and blowing smoke up into the darkness. I always wondered what she was thinking about, or if she was thinking at all.
Then she'd look over at me and lick her lips to wet them, blinking her big brown eyes. She was so dark, and so mysterious. "Well done," she'd say.
I'd laugh a bit and make my lazy way out of the bed to slip on some underwear, and then I'd grab the champagne. Just another romantic night. I'd get the two glasses we had used an hour earlier off of the night stand and fill them up again.
She always did this little chuckle when I handed her the champagne I had poured for her. I still don't know what the hell it meant, but she never failed to do it. Just another little thing I always loved about her.
So there we'd be, laying in the bed, her smoking a cigarette and sipping on her drink, and me following suit. I never cared much for cigarettes, though, I always favored a nice cigar. She always said it made me only more irresistible. I never did understand that.
Really, looking back, I guess I never did understand anything about her. I never quite understood why she did things, or how she'd react to things that I'd do. I guess that's why we never made it past a few months; past a few flings; really, past a few fucks.
Rainy day in October, I come home from work. I'm tired. Really fuckin' tired. I go into the bedroom to change into something more comfortable, and there's the little bitch. She's so damn beautiful and delicate, but she's packing her suitcase.
"Going to visit your mother?" I asked her.
"More than a visit, Charles," she said.
I shot her a look of inquiry. Something was up.
"I," she started, taking a brave, deep breath. "Need a MAN, Charlie. A man."
"I am a fuckin' man," I said. "I go to work every day to buy you what you want. I come home, I please you."
"You please me," she said sadly. "Yes, you do please me."
Just another little fuckup, I thought. The whole argument would be over in a minute, and everything would be fine.
Then she looked at me again. Somehow her eyes weren't beautiful. "You please me, but you can never make me happy."
"Happy?" I laughed. "How can I make YOU happy, when I can't even make MYSELF happy?"
So there I am, standing there. I don't know what I said. I still don't know what I said, but she left. She just fuckin' left, all her shit laid out on my bed. She never did come back for it.
I searched for her for a year, everywhere I could. The only relatives that answered told me to "fuck off, you loser". I never did find her.
And here I am, ten years gone, and I'm writing this about her. I don't know what happened to her. I don't know if I ever loved her, or if she loved me. I never did understand her, but God, I'd give anything to see her again.
| Mm, slightly ironic, and I like the ending part--|
"I don't know if I ever loved her, or if she loved me. I never did understand her, but God, I'd give anything to see her again."
It kinda adds the right twist to the knife, if you know what I mean. The thing I question though, is, what was the purpose of this story? If any was intended.
|| Posted on 2007-12-08 00:00:00 | by No_purpose | [ Reply to This ] |