Title: Her
Apr. 7th, 2007 07:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sparklebutchTitle: Her
Original Story
I don't want to gloss. I want to tell it like it is. Everything.
Everything that happened since that last night she put her hand on my arm and said, very quietly, that she had to go, and I looked down and my arm was tainted red. Everything that happened before.
I wish I could remember every detail. Put every detail into words. Since the day we met - the day I saw her on the street and her hair was the brightest spot under the sun. I wish I remembered what colour was the dress she wore. She talked to me and I talked to her, and all I can remember is that she offered me Strawberry Gum. Funny what sticks to mind. I have no idea what I said that convinced her to go have a drink with me.
I do remember that night, though. Our first night. The sex, fumbled and damp. My fingers in her, and before that, when she took off her shirt and unhooked her bra, those moments I remember in full clarity. How we both tasted like strawberry flavoured chemicals and vodka.
Don't remember much of the morning after. She moved in the week after that. Didn't take her long. She didn't have a place to stay, and I didn't mind, because I was smitten. And because she was hot. The flat wasn't mine but the owner didn't even know what was going on there, and the guy who lived there before me said I could do whatever I wanted with it. So she moved in, and painted the wall with the window in my bedroom a bright red.
She liked red, but usually it was only in the little things. She never, for example, wore red. She wore mostly black, and grey, and had one green shirt and one pink one. She had red underwear. Matching set. Lace.
She had red lipstick which I never saw her wear outside the bedroom. She also used it to leave me notes on the bathroom mirror. And one time to write "-l-o-v-e-" on my chest.
She had a job, I didn't know what it was, she said it was in an office and was "mind-numbingly boring". She left every morning, sometimes with me, sometimes before I left the house. Sometimes after. She usually was back before I was, but that didn't seem strange, because my hours were crazy at the time. Most days I'd be home after dark.
I made her a key.
It seemed like forever, after a while. We just lived together. She bought groceries. She cooked. I cleaned up after. We both went to the laundry place together. It was routine; it was our life.
She bought a little black nightie and a little red dildo.
One night I came home and she wasn't there. I paced around until midnight, and she showed up a little after that. Said her office had a birthday party for one of the girls there and instead of pretzels and a small cake someone brought beer, and somehow it lasted. Said she's sorry for not calling. Said she ate too much cake and she's really sorry, and that she loves me. I went to sleep and I could hear her throwing up.
In the morning she said she's staying home. Said she reckons half of the people at her work would stay home. Said it was a mean party and that the beer was imported from some backwater country that didn’t even have English on the labels. When I came home at the end of that day there was a really fancy dinner waiting for me, and she had her red lipstick on. I was tired, but she let her tank top fall off her shoulders and she wasn't wearing a bra underneath and she kissed me and her flavour was like strawberry. She took me to bed and straddled me.
We fought once because the milk had gone bad. It wasn't a serious fight, but she was really upset. I thought she left the milk, she thought I did. It was blown out of proportion. She slammed doors and cried in the bathroom. I was just caught in the tide. Then later when we made up I held her in my arms and she cried and said she had a rotten day at work and that she's sorry, it really wasn't a big deal about the milk. We all have bad days. I said I knew, and I'm sorry too. I never meant to make her cry. She said I didn't make her cry, she did. She said we should go together and buy new milk at the late night supermarket. Put on a black sweater and pulled her hair back, and I found my shoes and we went and bought milk, and batteries, and a chocolate bar.
I remember some things. I remember when we went swimming in the pool and her hair turned green for a while. I remember how we laughed. I remember when she held my hand at the queue to the movies.
I don't exactly remember what was going on that night, really. She called me at work and said she might be late because she might go visit her sister, but no plans are set in stone and in any case not to worry. I went back home and she wasn't there, so I sat in front of the television and ate dinner that was mostly leftovers. I thought about her and thought to go masturbate and then thought better of it and decided to wait up.
She came home very late. There was grass in her hair, and black circles under her eyes. She said, "I have to tell you something."
I said, "Yes?"
She said, "I don't work in an office, exactly."
I sort of... said nothing.
"There is an office. It's just not a typing and making coffee kinda office."
I still said nothing.
"A job went very bad today," she said and sat down next to me. That's when I noticed her hands were covered in red.
It didn't look like paint.
She said, "I had great hours, and great pay, and very rarely had to kill someone face to face."
I remember the funniest things from that moment. How her breath still smelled of strawberry, but her hair smelled of smoke and grease and how her hand was cold on my arm. Clammy. Like it was when she was nervous.
"I'm going to have to go," she said, and I nodded and felt stupid, and felt lonely, and felt cold.
She said, "Linda, look at me."
I looked. Her hair was matted and it wasn't bright. It looked tired. She looked tired.
She said, "I love you, Linda. Don't doubt it. I just have to go, because it's not safe. And because I love you."
She got up and went to the bathroom to wash up and I looked down and there was a red print on my arm, wet and dark. I could hear her packing. I heard when she left. I heard the door close.
I thought, someone died today.
I thought, I'll never see her again.
I thought to repaint. When I went to the bedroom it was like she was never there. There was nothing of her, no trace. Only my things, exactly where I left them.
I went to the bathroom to wash my arm. When I entered, I saw her lipstick on the edge of the sink. I saw writing in red on the mirror.
"-l-o-v-e-"
[end]
Original Story
I don't want to gloss. I want to tell it like it is. Everything.
Everything that happened since that last night she put her hand on my arm and said, very quietly, that she had to go, and I looked down and my arm was tainted red. Everything that happened before.
I wish I could remember every detail. Put every detail into words. Since the day we met - the day I saw her on the street and her hair was the brightest spot under the sun. I wish I remembered what colour was the dress she wore. She talked to me and I talked to her, and all I can remember is that she offered me Strawberry Gum. Funny what sticks to mind. I have no idea what I said that convinced her to go have a drink with me.
I do remember that night, though. Our first night. The sex, fumbled and damp. My fingers in her, and before that, when she took off her shirt and unhooked her bra, those moments I remember in full clarity. How we both tasted like strawberry flavoured chemicals and vodka.
Don't remember much of the morning after. She moved in the week after that. Didn't take her long. She didn't have a place to stay, and I didn't mind, because I was smitten. And because she was hot. The flat wasn't mine but the owner didn't even know what was going on there, and the guy who lived there before me said I could do whatever I wanted with it. So she moved in, and painted the wall with the window in my bedroom a bright red.
She liked red, but usually it was only in the little things. She never, for example, wore red. She wore mostly black, and grey, and had one green shirt and one pink one. She had red underwear. Matching set. Lace.
She had red lipstick which I never saw her wear outside the bedroom. She also used it to leave me notes on the bathroom mirror. And one time to write "-l-o-v-e-" on my chest.
She had a job, I didn't know what it was, she said it was in an office and was "mind-numbingly boring". She left every morning, sometimes with me, sometimes before I left the house. Sometimes after. She usually was back before I was, but that didn't seem strange, because my hours were crazy at the time. Most days I'd be home after dark.
I made her a key.
It seemed like forever, after a while. We just lived together. She bought groceries. She cooked. I cleaned up after. We both went to the laundry place together. It was routine; it was our life.
She bought a little black nightie and a little red dildo.
One night I came home and she wasn't there. I paced around until midnight, and she showed up a little after that. Said her office had a birthday party for one of the girls there and instead of pretzels and a small cake someone brought beer, and somehow it lasted. Said she's sorry for not calling. Said she ate too much cake and she's really sorry, and that she loves me. I went to sleep and I could hear her throwing up.
In the morning she said she's staying home. Said she reckons half of the people at her work would stay home. Said it was a mean party and that the beer was imported from some backwater country that didn’t even have English on the labels. When I came home at the end of that day there was a really fancy dinner waiting for me, and she had her red lipstick on. I was tired, but she let her tank top fall off her shoulders and she wasn't wearing a bra underneath and she kissed me and her flavour was like strawberry. She took me to bed and straddled me.
We fought once because the milk had gone bad. It wasn't a serious fight, but she was really upset. I thought she left the milk, she thought I did. It was blown out of proportion. She slammed doors and cried in the bathroom. I was just caught in the tide. Then later when we made up I held her in my arms and she cried and said she had a rotten day at work and that she's sorry, it really wasn't a big deal about the milk. We all have bad days. I said I knew, and I'm sorry too. I never meant to make her cry. She said I didn't make her cry, she did. She said we should go together and buy new milk at the late night supermarket. Put on a black sweater and pulled her hair back, and I found my shoes and we went and bought milk, and batteries, and a chocolate bar.
I remember some things. I remember when we went swimming in the pool and her hair turned green for a while. I remember how we laughed. I remember when she held my hand at the queue to the movies.
I don't exactly remember what was going on that night, really. She called me at work and said she might be late because she might go visit her sister, but no plans are set in stone and in any case not to worry. I went back home and she wasn't there, so I sat in front of the television and ate dinner that was mostly leftovers. I thought about her and thought to go masturbate and then thought better of it and decided to wait up.
She came home very late. There was grass in her hair, and black circles under her eyes. She said, "I have to tell you something."
I said, "Yes?"
She said, "I don't work in an office, exactly."
I sort of... said nothing.
"There is an office. It's just not a typing and making coffee kinda office."
I still said nothing.
"A job went very bad today," she said and sat down next to me. That's when I noticed her hands were covered in red.
It didn't look like paint.
She said, "I had great hours, and great pay, and very rarely had to kill someone face to face."
I remember the funniest things from that moment. How her breath still smelled of strawberry, but her hair smelled of smoke and grease and how her hand was cold on my arm. Clammy. Like it was when she was nervous.
"I'm going to have to go," she said, and I nodded and felt stupid, and felt lonely, and felt cold.
She said, "Linda, look at me."
I looked. Her hair was matted and it wasn't bright. It looked tired. She looked tired.
She said, "I love you, Linda. Don't doubt it. I just have to go, because it's not safe. And because I love you."
She got up and went to the bathroom to wash up and I looked down and there was a red print on my arm, wet and dark. I could hear her packing. I heard when she left. I heard the door close.
I thought, someone died today.
I thought, I'll never see her again.
I thought to repaint. When I went to the bedroom it was like she was never there. There was nothing of her, no trace. Only my things, exactly where I left them.
I went to the bathroom to wash my arm. When I entered, I saw her lipstick on the edge of the sink. I saw writing in red on the mirror.
"-l-o-v-e-"
[end]
