Roots
"Baby, I love you."
He holds on to her waist, pulls her down to the couch, slides her up on the cold marble counter. They are a perfect pair,her back fits perfectly into the crook of his arms, his lips perfectly in the nook of her neck. In front of her friends, they laugh, they smile and sway in unison, they are a team against the rest of the them.
It's a little game they refuse to acknowledge. They pretend to be seperating so that every encounter, every meeting is in denial, it isn't happening. He isn't pulling her into the bathroom, she isn't closing the door behind them, desire rolling off their bodies in waves of heat.
(In the game) She is back to being her own person, she is sure she doesn't need him to fill the space next to her every night. She is back home in her familiar room, where she fell asleep every night without him, where she was content in her being. She is somebody here, not just somebody to him. She draws from her roots deeply, realizes, she is fine without him. But he is here next to her, leaning against her, she scratches his cheek affectionately, she allows herself to be pulled underneath his shadow because he is still comfortable and still familiar.
Between tears and choked back words, she tilts her head, hands greasy under the sweltering heat, calmly spooning mashed potatoes into her mouth as he talks about being in love, about children and the future, calmly swallows it all without being pulled in. She is herself back home, she is rooted steady and still, she won't be pulled along by the waves. He will forever overcome her, she knows this. But maybe she might be strong enough to dig her feet in the ground this time. So that she can embrace him but still keep her feet steady, not allow herself to be swept away in the waves of words and affection and desire and lust. and love. and love?
He writes to her, tells her he misses her like hell, but that he is away on his own path, wanting to be someone more than her and him combined. She hopes she is strong enough, she hopes the roots she has here feeds her long enough that she remain steady even after she leaves.
--
"I feel like I'm your husband," he says as she escorts him back to his room, a few hours after they had melted into each other, hidden in the bathroom of her childhood bedroom, where they held each other, quietly intimate and passionate. She cracks a small smile, says good night and shuts the door.
He holds on to her waist, pulls her down to the couch, slides her up on the cold marble counter. They are a perfect pair,her back fits perfectly into the crook of his arms, his lips perfectly in the nook of her neck. In front of her friends, they laugh, they smile and sway in unison, they are a team against the rest of the them.
It's a little game they refuse to acknowledge. They pretend to be seperating so that every encounter, every meeting is in denial, it isn't happening. He isn't pulling her into the bathroom, she isn't closing the door behind them, desire rolling off their bodies in waves of heat.
(In the game) She is back to being her own person, she is sure she doesn't need him to fill the space next to her every night. She is back home in her familiar room, where she fell asleep every night without him, where she was content in her being. She is somebody here, not just somebody to him. She draws from her roots deeply, realizes, she is fine without him. But he is here next to her, leaning against her, she scratches his cheek affectionately, she allows herself to be pulled underneath his shadow because he is still comfortable and still familiar.
Between tears and choked back words, she tilts her head, hands greasy under the sweltering heat, calmly spooning mashed potatoes into her mouth as he talks about being in love, about children and the future, calmly swallows it all without being pulled in. She is herself back home, she is rooted steady and still, she won't be pulled along by the waves. He will forever overcome her, she knows this. But maybe she might be strong enough to dig her feet in the ground this time. So that she can embrace him but still keep her feet steady, not allow herself to be swept away in the waves of words and affection and desire and lust. and love. and love?
He writes to her, tells her he misses her like hell, but that he is away on his own path, wanting to be someone more than her and him combined. She hopes she is strong enough, she hopes the roots she has here feeds her long enough that she remain steady even after she leaves.
--
"I feel like I'm your husband," he says as she escorts him back to his room, a few hours after they had melted into each other, hidden in the bathroom of her childhood bedroom, where they held each other, quietly intimate and passionate. She cracks a small smile, says good night and shuts the door.
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