His Side Of The Story
The morning I finally convinced her to sleep over, when I woke up, she wasn't there. We'd fucked so much and so hard I could see her grabbing at my mattress pad, that and this deep heaving thing she did. I looked around and the side of the bed she'd slept on was made up. I slid my hand over and lifted the covers looking for a note. This was the woman who repeatedly divulged to me that when and if, 'if' stressed many times, she finally did sleep with me, she would stab a feather pen into my subclavian vein and let me bleed out the side of my neck if I did not wake up staring into her eyes.
This convinced me, she was what she was, which I hadn't decided yet. But I wanted that.
Fast forward 8 months into the longest relationship I've had, I had a pre-screening for a job starting out at the Fire Department. She'd pulled some of the tightest strings to get me the interview, because, some people just, know the right people. The night before I had a dinner party with a few of the people I'd meet with the next morning. The man she would talk to first would be a pivotal person in my new career, she'd whispered to me as we walked down the hall and she spotted him. The house party was laced with hanging Christmas lights although it wasn't Christmas with dim light and cherry wood paneling. There were no more than 16 people, who all seemed to either be important or 'look important' and we immediately sat in front of the fireplace in chairs that seemed to be saved just for us.
As she sat first, I sat next to her and on her side was what would be either my new boss or the assistant to my new boss. He and I made conversation a bit after she introduced us. The next moment I was in the middle of a conversation I'd lost track of. They were talking about a winery his family owned, specifically of the wine we were sipping, and his hand somehow slid to middle of her leg. There was no other indication, but I knew, no matter if she admitted it or not, they had history.
I'd had enough expensive wine 'picked from the grapes below a shimmering sunset' and was ready to go. That night when we arrived back at our condo we fought over the specifics of who the people at the dinner actually were to her.
"They're FRIENDS, Donnovan"
"All of them are just FRIENDS? You know the way we've been FRIENDS for the last three months before you accidentally spent the night in my bed and now we call this a relationship?"
"How do these specifics matter when you have the job opportunity of a lifetime?" She says to me, the lines in her forehead frowning.
This woman, beige skin-kissed cocoa brown with deep splotches of toffee, she had oval eyes and a commercial-worthy smile. Because I am not one to deny any of the truth she'd present you with, she looked exactly like my ex-girlfriend, only more petite. She was of the same caliber with a natural no-makeup look, but she was educated. What most would call book smart.
"He was FRIEND-ly with his hand on your thigh"
"He's a flirtatious person, so am I, you know that,” she said back to me.
"I didn't ask anyone for a threesome in your favor"
"I prefer you not even go there with your fans and their fanfare, my friends wouldn't have invited us if there were or had ever been anything inappropriate going on," she screamed.
She slid back the glass to the foggy bathroom door and I watched as her robe fell off. I thought of going in after her, but I could feel the wine and I wanted to be rested for the next day. I didn't feel her get into bed.
The next morning when I woke up, both of my cell phones were ringing at the same time. I'd missed the big meeting. Partially on accident, perhaps subconsciously on purpose. I picked up the phone to hear her screaming in my ear about being a 'perfect fuck up' and as I was silent through the reprimand I stared at her robe still lying on the floor I could see from the door cracked open.
I am thinking of this moment while I am staring at the robe and it is reminding me of that first morning instead of the moment right now. In she walks wearing that same robe after our first night together. She's wearing the robe she hijacked from me, oversized and soft, the white one, I see on the floor, draping her body, and eventually the same robe I'll find covered in blood, but on that first morning we spent together, I am thinking of that robe and how comfortable she looked in it.
As she leans in and falls onto her side of the bed, she kisses me and I see she has helped herself to grapes from the kitchen. I sit up and grab her and pretend to stab her in the neck excessively. She knows what this means.
Every morning we woke up together for the past 8 months I never kissed her face, or even her lips.
I only kissed the side of her neck, over and over and over.
To Be Continued ...
* "His Side of The Story" [acting title] - is a piece of nonfiction turned fiction, the response to the larger work "My Side of The Story." It is a tiny snippet of a longer piece of work in progress.
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