December 13, 2011

There was a few weeks when all she did was cry.

In the mornings there was the too bright light from the window despite her pulled shut blinds and in the day there was the endless cups of something coffee tea steaming hot something that burned her tongue and trips to the corner store to stand and stare at colorful narrow aisles, blinking, and the dark skinned man behind the counter with his curled dark hair shaking his head. 

In the evening when it got cold and colder still and she was alone huddled beneath the pale dead blue of her blankets, knees pulled to her chest, fingers sunk into either side of her head, rocking and crying and remembering, it was the worst. The glaze of the sunset across the sky was lighting the visions that came alive in her head. 

The way he brushed her hair and held her hands, kissing the tip of each finger, the way he woke up and the cologne he sometimes wore that smelled like leather and cognac and amber and the way the stubble he was always trying to convince her was a sexy touch felt against her skin, prickly and violent and

The way he looked at her, right before, the way he squeezed her hand and the sadness sunken in his cheeks and the way she knew but couldn’t have—

Alone in her room, her swollen bottom lip, her aching eyelids, crying, as if it could turn back time and erase erase erase like the way he used to pretend to erase every part of him that wasn’t good (enough for her). 

The way he said those words. The way she felt a flutter of unease every time her eyes settled on his wrist. The way he promised he wouldn’t, not again, not with her.

The way she realized that she never knew him at all. 

(Source: paintedfictions)

#fiction #lit
/14 notes /10:48 PM

14 Notes

  1. cestlavielittledino reblogged this from paintedfictions
  2. neramarola reblogged this from paintedfictions
  3. paintedfictions posted this