on her lips, her breasts,
her curvy-assed body. I wanted to slam her against the door and
ravage her until she let out those little kitten moans that drove
me wild.
“Can I get you some coffee?” I forced myself
to step away. Another second and she’d feel my worked up cock
pressing into her.
It worked. She turned and followed me to the
mini-bar.
I poured her a cup and waited for her to take
it, but she just stood there, staring at my fingers around the
mug.
“Here.” I placed it on the counter.
It killed me that she didn’t want to risk
touching me. It thrilled me too. Because it meant she wasn’t immune
to it. But mostly, it killed me.
“Cream? Sugar?” I knew exactly how she liked
it. Tea. Coffee. Sex.
“Aren’t you having any?” she asked.
She wanted me to have coffee with her.
In my mind we were fucking. Gloriously,
furiously fucking.
I poured myself a cup and stared into the
steaming brew of irony, hating myself, hating her. It was the only
way I could keep myself from looking at her, because then she’d see
it—my endless, boundless need for her.
“Troy?”
“Yes?” I took a peek because now she was the
one hiding her face, averting her eyes.
“I don’t want coffee.” A tear rolled down her
face.
A fucking tear.
“Don’t, Shayda.” It took every bit of
restraint, not to take clasp my hand over hers.
“I don’t want coffee,” she said. “Or cream.
Or sugar.”
“I know, baby. But it’s all we got.” Because you shut me out. Because the only way I can make this
right is to take you away from everyone you love. Because no matter
which scenario plays out, someone always gets hurt.
“We’ve got today,” she whispered.
“What are you saying, Shayda?” I held my
breath.
“I’m saying, we have now. Here. Today.”
“Quit fucking with me, Beetroot.” I don’t
want today. I want all your todays.
But the moment I said her pet name, I knew I
was done. She was my Beetroot Butterfly. She might stop to rest on
my shoulder, let me hold her for a while, my palms outstretched,
let me marvel at her fragile, fleeting wings, but the slightest
breeze and she’d be gone, taking with her all my colors.
Because she wasn’t mine to love. Or to have,
or to hold. She wore a shiny gold band around her finger, and it
wasn’t mine. She had worn it since the first time we’d met.
2. STILLNESS
PAST
I woke up that day with a foot in my face. No nail
polish. Rough, hard, big and hairy. A man’s foot.
Disappointing.
“Ryan.” I pushed his dangling leg back on the
bed. My voice was raspy from all the beer, and my head felt dull
and heavy.
“What?” He stirred.
“I’m going for a run. You still in?” I got
off the floor and stretched. I had carpet burn from where I’d
crashed last night and the rosary around my neck had left round
indents on the side of my arm.
“Are you kiddin’ me?” he mumbled. “Go back to
sleep and think happy thoughts of Matilda.”
“Mmmmmmatilda.” I smiled. The exchange
student Ryan’s girlfriend had hooked me up with.
“Dude, her body did not match her
name.” said Ryan.
“Dipshit.” I smacked him in the back of his
head. “Is that why you had Ellen set us up?”
“I could only hope. But you always luck out.
Now get out of my face.” He pulled the covers over his eyes.
I should be sleeping too, considering what
time we got back. Thank god for Ellen. I’d been in no condition to
drive myself home. I dusted the sand off my sweatshirt and put it
on. Beach parties are fun, but gritty. And I was still smelling of
smoke and whatever perfume Matilda had on. I thought of hitting the
shower, but I was going to get sweaty anyways.
It was early enough that dew drops still
clung to plump blades of grass. A cool, sunny June morning—perfect
for a run. And that’s exactly what I did. I ran. Not a nice,
leisurely start to the day, but a full-on sprint, the incomparable
rush of feeling the world whizz by in a blur of sound and light
her curvy-assed body. I wanted to slam her against the door and
ravage her until she let out those little kitten moans that drove
me wild.
“Can I get you some coffee?” I forced myself
to step away. Another second and she’d feel my worked up cock
pressing into her.
It worked. She turned and followed me to the
mini-bar.
I poured her a cup and waited for her to take
it, but she just stood there, staring at my fingers around the
mug.
“Here.” I placed it on the counter.
It killed me that she didn’t want to risk
touching me. It thrilled me too. Because it meant she wasn’t immune
to it. But mostly, it killed me.
“Cream? Sugar?” I knew exactly how she liked
it. Tea. Coffee. Sex.
“Aren’t you having any?” she asked.
She wanted me to have coffee with her.
In my mind we were fucking. Gloriously,
furiously fucking.
I poured myself a cup and stared into the
steaming brew of irony, hating myself, hating her. It was the only
way I could keep myself from looking at her, because then she’d see
it—my endless, boundless need for her.
“Troy?”
“Yes?” I took a peek because now she was the
one hiding her face, averting her eyes.
“I don’t want coffee.” A tear rolled down her
face.
A fucking tear.
“Don’t, Shayda.” It took every bit of
restraint, not to take clasp my hand over hers.
“I don’t want coffee,” she said. “Or cream.
Or sugar.”
“I know, baby. But it’s all we got.” Because you shut me out. Because the only way I can make this
right is to take you away from everyone you love. Because no matter
which scenario plays out, someone always gets hurt.
“We’ve got today,” she whispered.
“What are you saying, Shayda?” I held my
breath.
“I’m saying, we have now. Here. Today.”
“Quit fucking with me, Beetroot.” I don’t
want today. I want all your todays.
But the moment I said her pet name, I knew I
was done. She was my Beetroot Butterfly. She might stop to rest on
my shoulder, let me hold her for a while, my palms outstretched,
let me marvel at her fragile, fleeting wings, but the slightest
breeze and she’d be gone, taking with her all my colors.
Because she wasn’t mine to love. Or to have,
or to hold. She wore a shiny gold band around her finger, and it
wasn’t mine. She had worn it since the first time we’d met.
2. STILLNESS
PAST
I woke up that day with a foot in my face. No nail
polish. Rough, hard, big and hairy. A man’s foot.
Disappointing.
“Ryan.” I pushed his dangling leg back on the
bed. My voice was raspy from all the beer, and my head felt dull
and heavy.
“What?” He stirred.
“I’m going for a run. You still in?” I got
off the floor and stretched. I had carpet burn from where I’d
crashed last night and the rosary around my neck had left round
indents on the side of my arm.
“Are you kiddin’ me?” he mumbled. “Go back to
sleep and think happy thoughts of Matilda.”
“Mmmmmmatilda.” I smiled. The exchange
student Ryan’s girlfriend had hooked me up with.
“Dude, her body did not match her
name.” said Ryan.
“Dipshit.” I smacked him in the back of his
head. “Is that why you had Ellen set us up?”
“I could only hope. But you always luck out.
Now get out of my face.” He pulled the covers over his eyes.
I should be sleeping too, considering what
time we got back. Thank god for Ellen. I’d been in no condition to
drive myself home. I dusted the sand off my sweatshirt and put it
on. Beach parties are fun, but gritty. And I was still smelling of
smoke and whatever perfume Matilda had on. I thought of hitting the
shower, but I was going to get sweaty anyways.
It was early enough that dew drops still
clung to plump blades of grass. A cool, sunny June morning—perfect
for a run. And that’s exactly what I did. I ran. Not a nice,
leisurely start to the day, but a full-on sprint, the incomparable
rush of feeling the world whizz by in a blur of sound and light
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