Read Online Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 8 by Various Authors - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Various Authors
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completely different things.
He sees my hesitation and his mouth sets in a grim line. "You're full of shit," he sneers as the cab lurches to a stop.
Instantly his hands are on the door, halfway out before I realise that he's moved. Blind panic overwhelms me and I dart forward, catching his sleeve and pulling him back. Our mouths are crushed together and his whole body's rigid with shock but I have to do this, I have to let him know somehow that I love him. He softens in my arms and with a moan opens to me as I slide my hot tongue between his lips to taste him.
Too soon he breaks away, refusing to look at me as he stumbles onto the pavement and up the steps to his front door. I'm crouched on the floor of the cab, framed in the open doorway, and all I can feel is the heat of his mouth pressed to mine. He fumbles with the key and I hear the loud snick of the lock echo in the silence of the night. He steps into the darkened hall and the door closes behind him with a finality I find chilling.
Reluctantly I pull the cab door shut and climb back onto the seat, not meeting the inquisitive eyes in the rear view mirror as I give the driver my address. I lean my forehead against the soothingly cool window and watch the dark house as the car turns and drives away. In one of the upstairs rooms, I'd swear I saw a curtain twitch.
****
I crawl out of bed on Sunday with even more reluctance than usual. I've never liked getting up in the dark. I shower and pull on my jogging gear, dressing as slowly as a man awaiting sentence. My peers have already judged me and found me wanting.
The park's empty when I arrive, the grass crisp and white with a late frost, my breath billowing in clouds around me as I stamp my feet and rub my numbed hands together at the gate, waiting. I know already that this is futile, that he's not coming, that this time I never will see him again. I can't say I blame him.
The palest duck egg blue tints the sky like a wash as I accept the inevitable and begin my lonely circuit of the park. I used to enjoy running: the sense of freedom, the pleasurable pull of healthy muscles as they warm and work, endorphins kicking in as my body relaxes and leaves my mind free to wander. These days I try to keep my mind occupied at all times.
I fall into a rhythm, lulled by my even breaths and the regular slap slap of my trainers on the asphalt path. I nod at an elderly dog walker, skirting a wide arc around his yappy little Jack Russell. He nods back, sensing a kindred spirit. If only he knew.
I put my head down and carry on, wishing I'd brought my iPod– something to distract me. I try singing in my head but I forget the words to every song I start, my mind returning, as it has for the last twenty waking hours and several of the eight sleeping ones, to Paul: his face, his eyes, his lips. Especially his lips.
A rhythmic slap behind me heralds another jogger and I shift slightly on the path to give him room to get by unobstructed. He approaches quickly and draws level, but it takes me a minute to realise that he's not overtaking. I look up and glance across, almost stumbling when I see my best friend flash me a dazzling grin and speed up. I accept the challenge in a heartbeat, increasing my pace to keep level with him, laughing as he speeds up again. In seconds we're in a race, both running flat out around the long circuit which leads back to the main gates.
My muscles begin to protest at the furious pace we're setting but somehow I know it's important that I win this, and Paul's not cutting me any slack. The icy air slaps my face, rasping uncomfortably in my throat as I gasp for breath. I feel the burn of lactic acid building in my calves as I put my head down, racing flat out, but I ride the burn and refuse to stop. We're neck and neck coming round the last corner and I put on a last desperate burst of speed, using my extra couple of inches in height to overtake him. He puts his head down, arms pumping wildly at his sides, but
He sees my hesitation and his mouth sets in a grim line. "You're full of shit," he sneers as the cab lurches to a stop.
Instantly his hands are on the door, halfway out before I realise that he's moved. Blind panic overwhelms me and I dart forward, catching his sleeve and pulling him back. Our mouths are crushed together and his whole body's rigid with shock but I have to do this, I have to let him know somehow that I love him. He softens in my arms and with a moan opens to me as I slide my hot tongue between his lips to taste him.
Too soon he breaks away, refusing to look at me as he stumbles onto the pavement and up the steps to his front door. I'm crouched on the floor of the cab, framed in the open doorway, and all I can feel is the heat of his mouth pressed to mine. He fumbles with the key and I hear the loud snick of the lock echo in the silence of the night. He steps into the darkened hall and the door closes behind him with a finality I find chilling.
Reluctantly I pull the cab door shut and climb back onto the seat, not meeting the inquisitive eyes in the rear view mirror as I give the driver my address. I lean my forehead against the soothingly cool window and watch the dark house as the car turns and drives away. In one of the upstairs rooms, I'd swear I saw a curtain twitch.
****
I crawl out of bed on Sunday with even more reluctance than usual. I've never liked getting up in the dark. I shower and pull on my jogging gear, dressing as slowly as a man awaiting sentence. My peers have already judged me and found me wanting.
The park's empty when I arrive, the grass crisp and white with a late frost, my breath billowing in clouds around me as I stamp my feet and rub my numbed hands together at the gate, waiting. I know already that this is futile, that he's not coming, that this time I never will see him again. I can't say I blame him.
The palest duck egg blue tints the sky like a wash as I accept the inevitable and begin my lonely circuit of the park. I used to enjoy running: the sense of freedom, the pleasurable pull of healthy muscles as they warm and work, endorphins kicking in as my body relaxes and leaves my mind free to wander. These days I try to keep my mind occupied at all times.
I fall into a rhythm, lulled by my even breaths and the regular slap slap of my trainers on the asphalt path. I nod at an elderly dog walker, skirting a wide arc around his yappy little Jack Russell. He nods back, sensing a kindred spirit. If only he knew.
I put my head down and carry on, wishing I'd brought my iPod– something to distract me. I try singing in my head but I forget the words to every song I start, my mind returning, as it has for the last twenty waking hours and several of the eight sleeping ones, to Paul: his face, his eyes, his lips. Especially his lips.
A rhythmic slap behind me heralds another jogger and I shift slightly on the path to give him room to get by unobstructed. He approaches quickly and draws level, but it takes me a minute to realise that he's not overtaking. I look up and glance across, almost stumbling when I see my best friend flash me a dazzling grin and speed up. I accept the challenge in a heartbeat, increasing my pace to keep level with him, laughing as he speeds up again. In seconds we're in a race, both running flat out around the long circuit which leads back to the main gates.
My muscles begin to protest at the furious pace we're setting but somehow I know it's important that I win this, and Paul's not cutting me any slack. The icy air slaps my face, rasping uncomfortably in my throat as I gasp for breath. I feel the burn of lactic acid building in my calves as I put my head down, racing flat out, but I ride the burn and refuse to stop. We're neck and neck coming round the last corner and I put on a last desperate burst of speed, using my extra couple of inches in height to overtake him. He puts his head down, arms pumping wildly at his sides, but
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