Realization of Truth

 

truth (1)

 

She straddled his lap, staring into his eyes. Am I forcing this? She questioned herself.  Am I making intimacy my mission?  It had been two months since her breakup with “what’s his name”, as her friends had resorted to calling him.  Two whole months since she had sworn off love and embraced the pursuit of all things hedonistic.

Just go with it and stop with the fucking questions! She chided herself.  His eyes were honest…kind.  Who cares! You’re not doing this for the emotion.  Pressing her lips to his, she felt his hands slide around her back, threaded fingers pulling her closer.  “You’re beautiful”, he exhaled the words into her open mouth.  She pulled back, refusing to inhale them.  “Let me fix you a drink.”  Sliding off his lap she walked in the direction of the kitchen.

You’re beautiful.” He leaned against the door frame, watching her intently.  “That’s all” crossing his arms, eyebrow quirked, three days of stubble only justifiable for someone in his line of work, “no additional motivation”.

She believed him.  “Thank you.” Awkward.

“Do you believe it?” He asked, genuinely curious.  She continued pouring, playing amateur barkeep.  He filled the silence,  “I recall the day I saw you speaking to someone in the coffee shop, you never smiled, you were so intense. It was stunning.”   He stepped forward, away from the door frame.  “I remember thinking that your teeth were perfectly imperfect and I loved how your lips curved at the corner.  I was willing to approach you even if it meant having that mouth tell me to shove off.”  She smiled at how his accented speech made everything alluring.

Handing him the glass she slid past.  No eye contact. “Are you working tomorrow?, she asked, obviously seeking a distraction.  “If not, there’s a gallery preview that you may be interested in.”  She watched him sip his drink thoughtfully.

“Will this give me more time with you?  If so, tell me what time and I will be there.”  He took another slow sip allowing the whiskey to slip past his lips with appreciation.

“Do you ever say the wrong thing?”  She asked skeptically.

“Of course I do, most of the time, actually”, he laughed.  “It just seems to happen less frequently when I’m with you”, he paused, “something about you makes me want to say the right thing all of the time.”

She walked toward him.  Damn Oprah and her ‘aha’ moments.  Is this mine?

Is he part of my truth? Someone who wants to please me.  The guy that doesn’t try to justify why he doesn’t “need” me with scientifically therapeutic explanations.  The one who’s okay needing me because he’s sure that he wants me.

She realized, two months after “what’s his name”, that she had been missing something as human and fragile as necessity.

Fucking emotions.

 

(Constructed to Kimbra: Settle Down)

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Relocated Hearts

He moved one box after another, slowly but surely changing their lives.  She watched as he brought in boxes of incidentals and felt the finality.  Yesterday’s delivery of his large mahogany bed, matching wardrobe and “man-sized” flat-screen television should have been the ultimate moment of realization but it was the small things that brought it home.  No longer was she looking at his overnight shaving kit, instead, she walked through the bathroom and noted his toothbrush and electric razor neatly placed on the counter top.

She sighed at the thought of this venture.  It wasn’t long ago that she was caught up in the process of choosing.  Kevin had told her that she was going to have to make a decision on.  Kevin, with his laissez-faire attitude and 5 o’clock shadow that shrouded his devilish grin, was forcing her to make a decision.  Pressing her with timelines.

Making her way into the living room, she sat on the arm of his favorite chair, posted in the corner of the room.  “You know, it’s all going to work out, don’t you?” lacing her fingers through his.  Deep breath, deep breath, pause…“I guess we’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?” a typical Kevin response, non-committal even after agreeing.  They both rose slowly, seeking a break from the stagnant air between them, hoping to avoid any discomfort brought on by change.

Lacey swayed to the sounds of The Civil Wars, C’est La Mort, drifting from the speakers, holding out her hand to him.  “It’s been a long time since you just danced with me.  Come.”  He took her in from head to purple painted toes.  Her chin jutting out like a spoiled child, lips in a perpetual pout–her begging mouth he called it.  Grabbing her wrist, he pulled her in tightly, turning her back to his chest. Lightly, placing the other arm across her neck and shoulders, he inhaled her scent.  He meant to display power but felt the typical pull she had over him.  The last minute show of authority diminished.  What was he doing?  He wasn’t sure, he only knew that he had the need to possess her and the need for possession would force you to be flexible.

His hand drifted down to her breast, cupping her gently.  Massaging gave way to a light pinch of the nipples that he enjoyed teasing with his tongue for the past four years.  She threw her head back against his shoulder, hissing like a cornered kitten.  He felt the blood rushing to below his belt buckle pressing his length into her generous ass.

“Oh, I’m sorry!”  They broke out of their moment, feeling like two teenagers caught in the corner of the basement.  She busied her hands to hide the shaking, smoothing her tank top.  “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Lacey and Kevin glanced back and forth, each waiting for the other to make a move.

Breaking the silence, Lacey walked over to Evan, “No need to apologize, it’s your home too.  Is everything out of the trunk?”

“Yeah, there are some small things but nothing serious.”  He said glancing over her head at Kevin.

No words necessary just an unspoken discomfort.  Two lambs in a lioness den.

Gripping his hand Lacy coerced Evan to the center of the room, gently tugging a simultaneously reluctant and willing body, she repeated her reassurance, “This is your home too.”

The tension in her shoulders eased as they closed in on her, meeting her rhythmic movement as the lyrics announced their journey. Let’s walk down the road that has no end…

Feeling their strength surround her, she thought to herself…”I’m going to like this.”

Written to: All The Wild Horses by Ray LaMontagne

Premeditation of Power

Evening BStone

It felt familiar, except the car seemed to move smoothly through characteristically bumpy roads, I mean come on, it was Brooklyn.  She wondered if tomorrow she would remember this ride in shades of black and white, historically accurate brownstones with pretty window boxes standing prominently in the backdrop of her memory and then she stopped caring and started focusing on the task at hand.

Where was she?  Ah, yes, the belt buckle.  She ran her hand over the gold tones of an obviously expensive belt buckle as his hands slid over the arch of her back.  Why did her knees seem to tuck so effortlessly into this position as the faint clink of metal on metal echoed?  Her head brushed against the roof of the car as she raised herself just enough to let him free himself.  No need to do all of the work, she thought.

What seemed to take a lot of thought before was happening fluidly now—the result of premeditation.  There were no scraps of lace as a barrier between his thickness and her warm entry so she just let it be.  Sliding down slowly she threw her head back exposing her neck and it was just the invitation he needed.  “Come here”, he muttered, pulling her forward.  With very little space to escape, she allowed herself to lean into him, no resistance.  He used her neck to muzzle the sounds of his groans as she rocked rhythmically on his lap.  Row, row, row your boat….1, 2, 3, 4….row, row, row your boat…1, 2, 3, 4….gently down the stream….1, 2, 3, 4….merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily….1,2, 1, 2, 1, 2….life is but a dream….1, 2, 3, 4…roll bounce…..yes the rhythm created a frenzy.

She let a moan escape her lips but it wasn’t the same peal of pleasure that he had expressed, it was a victory cry.  The pulsing between her thighs wasn’t her, it was all him as he gripped her waist and threw his head back, mouth open as though he would dare to fall asleep in that moment.  Disengaging, she adjusted her body and dress.  He watched her, mouth open, impressed with her bravado.

“Driver, pull over here please.”  The car slowed to a stop in the middle of the block, darkness  shrouding the actual location of home.  She placed a twenty on his lap and smiled into his perplexed face, “thanks for letting me share your cab, love.  I hope it was a memorable night”.  Speechless, he watched her exit the taxi the same way she got in, full of control.  As the car pulled away to move through the  intersections and streetlights of the borough, she adjusted her hair and makeup and pulled her keys out of the overpriced bag, another symbol of a Brooklyn girl.

She lightly bounded up the stoop, avoiding a loud click of her heels and entered the lobby before turning the key in the lock of her first floor apartment.   She knew what to expect and it’s exactly what she got.  Barely glancing away from the game, he called out his obligatory greeting, “how was your day?”

Nevermind her new dress, sky-high stilettos or slightly tousled hair, he only paid attention to the things that mattered to him.  Smiling sweetly as she headed toward their bedroom,she called over her shoulder, “Powerful.”