Even though I don't work today I get dressed and go into the city feeling like it's out of my way and it is. I've been penciled in for lunch with my best friend who is always busy nowadays: downtown job, high heels, two joints when she gets home(more) from the office at 9pm. That sort of busy. Shorthand for virtue in these mannerless times.
It's her fault. Same as with me. But she keeps taking on more and more; not only can't she say no but she comes up with elaborate ways to explain why she actually means yes.
Her new boyfriend joins us. He's not 'new' anymore, really. I've met Scott three times. The problem is he makes no impression on me. I keep forgetting we've met. His still gaze, his hearty laugh. It all screams 'love me.' Even halfway through a conversation & looking straight at him I find myself wanting to say "Hello?" Like I'm just noticing him.
We order curries. They nuzzle like it's Quality Time. I pick at my food, decide to start drinking hard as soon as they leave. My friend makes the error of talking about her job; she will not stop. Her boyfriend nods, rubs her thigh, lets her tell him what to do. He looks like a pussy to me.
Still. A step up from the men she usually dates: another exhausting type, the type who is "intellectual" so you can't tell, quite, if he's being smart or verbally abusive. Either way one ends up wanting to punch him hard in the face.
I pick at my food and wonder if all this is enough stimulus, enough upset, to justify my nausea and cold wet hands. They lick their plates clean and look at each other like, You're next.(less)
There’s an eerie calm when you know the end is near. When you’ve been bleeding out for so long that all you feel is the coldness that wraps itself around your wounded body. They say that just before you die, your whole life flashes before your eyes, I guess(more) it makes sense that when you die slowly you get more time to look at what you’ve accomplished. I deserve to be here.
I find myself asking questions, all feeling has left me. Do you think that there’s something waiting for me, that I just can’t see them yet? Do you believe in hell? I’m definitely going to find myself there very soon.
I look around at the dead and dying around me, all our blood splattered across the floor, forming a stream. I spot the lifeless body of the last man I shot and find myself wondering about his family - how sad they’re going to be... Why am I not thinking about my family? They’re probably sitting down to dinner now, thinking I’m out working later again. I can imagine the smell of roast beef and hear the kids arguing; hear them scraping their plates at they cut through the tender meat. I can almost taste the blueberry pie, with warm creamy custard dribbled over it, I’d gobble it all up. If that was my last dessert I’d savour each sweet and tangy and rich delicious mouthful...
My mind jumps back to where I am. I'm so sorry. I know I can't take it back; it's over for me. I'm glad I can't hurt anyone anymore. I'm sorry to the families I've destroyed, I'm sorry to my family. Please forgive me.(less)
"SON-OF-A-BITCH!" Chandler yelled after dropping all the deviled eggs on the ground. That wasn't the only thing he had dropped to the ground in the kitchen but luckily we have two awesome mops. One is named Hiro and the other is named Tsuki. I even had a cute story(more) of them made up in my mind. They are quick cleaners too! They tend to lick clean the floor whenever food is dropped.
the sound of his breath,
the beating of his heart,
it's hot in here.
you sliced me, left and right.
bleeding me out.
looking for your treasure;
(more) my heart beating back.
carefully taking it out of its place,
above my ribs,
and keeping it,
you stitched me back together,
cleaning your surroundings spotless,
you put the organ,
in its newfound place,
licking my stitches clean.
looking up at you,
i take one breath;
"keep it safe."(less)
The night you licked my fingers clean was the night I fell for you.
You stood, confident in your own skin, and leant over my patient shoulder to remove the baking residue from my hands. We had always been close, but in that moment we became closer than ever(more). You winked at me, coyly, trailing a hand over my broad shoulders.
That was the night I fell.
I didn't let you retreat, instead pulling you by the hip into a kiss even I was surprised about. Your arms wrapped around my neck as though they had always belonged there.
That was the night I felt you fall.
Everything was unhurried. It was intense, passionate, long awaited, even blissful. But we took our time. When I woke with you next to me the next morning, I knew.
That was the night we both fell.(less)
It was your hair that first captivated me. Blond. Shiny. "Licked clean," I would say. You hated that. You were always so well put together; I was always so disheveled. I used to tell you that you are brilliant all the time. But that was when we used to(more) talk.
I had dreams of me and you. Of us. But not in that sense of the word. I didn't want to be with you, but I wanted you to be mine. You were supposed to take me to prom. You were supposed to hold my hand. We were supposed to get rich and give everybody nice sweaters. And teach them how to dance. You never taught me how to dance.
You taught me how to be sad. "You are good at that," you said to me. I still talk to you and you still talk to me. But we don't talk anymore. Except maybe on those nights, when too much alcohol has been consumed. That's when the distance disappears and you're sitting next to me, saying all of the right words. In the morning it feels all wrong.
It was always hot. The humidity was so think you could cut it with a knife like in the cartoons. Port Gibson, Mississippi is a terrible, down trodden little speck of a town on the hip of the state. It's where my family is from, it's where I spent most of my(more) summers, and it's where my grandmother lived. Her new husband had cataracts in his eyes that fogged his vision to a point that he let my aunts take his money before he was dead, but that's another story. She wasn't that great of a cook, but she was southern. True southern. She still referred to the Civil War as the "War of Northern Aggression". She used the N-word fairly often. She grew and fried her own okra. That's what I remember the most. Diced okra, breaded, peppered, greasier than motor oil sitting in a pile on the corner of my plate.
I would spend my mornings in the garden with her picking tomatoes, okra, bell peppers, corn, watermelon, blueberries, zuccenni, weeds, aepids, snake traps. She'd wear those giant sunglasses you get at the pharmacy that fits over her glasses, and a huge floppy brimmed sun hat. She would tell me stories about the past. About the sunken road down the highway, about how Sherman didn't burn down Port Gibson because it was too beautiful (or if you ask her, because he had a lover there). She would tell me about my dad setting the lawn on fire as a child. Why we can't dance at my Aunt Rosemary's house. How cotton shortages destroyed whole towns on the Trace. We would walk along, picking okra till my fingers were sore while she told me the stories of my life.(less)
He'd never loved anyone quite the same way as he loved her—not even Gilbert, or Antonio, or Arthur. The day she'd stood before the throne looking as though she had the power of God behind her, that was the day he discovered that there was another kind of love,(more) a deeper love that seemed to lick him clean of any sin or hunger or desire. He embraced it as he embraced her—embraced her and loved her, and felt like crying when she smiled that tender smile and rode off to battle without so much a helmet on her golden head.
Eventually, he did cry. He cried because the kind always died young, because she died to save him, because she knew she would die but told him (him) to live. Because her calloused hands were softer than anything when she wiped away his bitter tears. Then, she was gone, and the only thing she left him was the touch of her fingers against his skin and her blessing for him to live. And so he went to her that day, because at the very least he wouldn't let the one who had told him to live die alone.
(And the fire licked her clean—clean down to the bone until there were only ashes left, and he felt that same fire raging around him and it licked the world clean of any color and love he had ever felt for it. And so it goes.)(less)
It was a trick of the light. I saw a figure standing there.
I'm pretty sure anyway. But I stepped forward to check if it is you, and the hallway was empty.
Of course it was.
I went back to the kitchen and opened up my Mueller corner.
(more) It was so sweet, I turned the spoon. (less)
Lovino was occupied with sticking his finger into the bowl of rich chocolate batter on the counter, carefully licking it clean before shoving it in again. He isn’t a huge fan of sweets, not as much as his brother at least, but if there’s one thing he has a(more) weakness for it’s Ludwig’s baking. Not that he’d ever admit it to the man. He’d managed to sneak into the kitchen when Ludwig had taken a phone call, just wanting to get a small taste. He’d only planned on dipping a finger in once and making a break for it, but he found himself sighing happily and scooping again and again. It was just too addictive, and how the larger man was so good with it, he’d never guess.
He was about to lick another finger clean when Ludwig stepped back in. How the man moved so quietly was a whole different question that he really didn’t have time to contemplate now, not with the other looking like he was about to throw him out of the house. Lovino wasn’t going to just run off though, so he looked him directly in the eye, and sucked his whole finger clean at once.
Ludwig just turned red, all thoughts of telling the other off for unsanitary practices completely leaving his mind. Lovino took the opportunity to scoop more on his finger, eyes never leaving Ludwig’s face.
The way Ludwig blushed was almost as addictive as the chocolate. (less)
ever had a nice, big, bowl of your favorite ice cream? mmm, yea. a big scoop of rocky road, or a odd-tasting cone of pistachio. whatever it is, anyone wants every last drop.
there comes a moment in our ice-cream eating lives where we're done with the ice(more) cream, but there's still enough in the bowl to fill another spoonful. except, it's spread around the whole bowl. and no matter how old you are, you bring the bowl up to your face and like that thing clean.
the ice cream on your chin is totally worth it.(less)
Ludwig stood at the kitchen counter, icing bag in his hands, cake sitting patiently in front of him, and a concentrated expression on his face.
He couldn't believe he had to make a cake. They were each assigned a food for Alfred's pot-luck, only this time it was(more) all desserts. Feliciano was making cannolis, Ludwig was making a Black Forest cake, and Francis took on the challenge of making crepes.
The cake wasn't hard to make, just tedious. He would rather have made it on his own time, not a deadline, when he didn't have work waiting to be completed in the office and a childish brother to entertain. Said brother was standing next to him, watching every move he made, most likely waiting to snatch up and fallen cake crumbs or cherries.
The blonde slowly lowered the icing bag and squeezed out the vanilla confection, creating large scalloped globs of icing around the edge. The albino kept watch, making sure to comment if he was off center, or if any were to large or small. This thoroughly agitated the blonde. The next sentence out of his brother mouth had better be "great job West!" or "I'll do it for you, go relax" or else he would bust a vein.
When instead it was "you're off center again" he straightened and glared, brandishing the bag to his face and putting a dollop of icing on his cheek. "Is that on point?" he snapped, relishing in the surprised look on the pale face. Relish turned into laughter, and he set down the bag. His smooth tongue wiped the icing off and he swallowed.
"Hmm, maybe you should bug me more often" he commented, smiling at the blush left in the icing's wake.
After hours of tedious copy-editing I decided to take a much needed break. I went to the kitchen to look for a snack only to find Jessica standing in front of the refrigerator, eyes peeking over the edge of a carton of Ben and Jerry's chocolate ice cream. "What(more) the hell are you doing?" I asked.
"What?" she said, "I'm hungry." She pulled the ice cream carton away from her face and glanced inside. She turned it a few degrees clockwise before she resumed licking.
"What is that on the floor?" I asked, a small red spot just underneath the freezer door catching my eye.
Jessica glanced to the floor, her eyes passing briefly over the red spot before returning to the nearly licked-clean walls of her ice cream carton.
I grabbed the dishrag from behind the sink. After bumping Jessica out of the way with my hip, I wiped the red spot up.
I opened the door to the fridge and grabbed a yogurt and a water bottle before returning to my office.
The alien disguised as the woman creature Jessica watched the man leave the room with mild curiosity. How can mankind build such complicated machinery with computing power and propulsion capabilities to rival our own, and yet not recognize a drop of its own bodily fluid? Surely he was close enough to smell the iron in the hemoglobin. Still puzzled, the alien open the freezer to examine its latest catch.(less)