My side of the bed is to your left, where you can protect me from the worst acheter viagra en suisse. It’s where your heart beats behind my lungs and it keeps me breathing. It’s where your breath tickles the back of my head when I move my hair out of the way. It’s where I wake up, your arm still around me and I smile because we have three more hours before sunrise and the world doesn’t know we’re hidden in my bed.
You make me feel important, I said to him. When love, he asked. Well, baby, when you brush my hair in the afternoon. And when you — when I pull it too, he pushed. Yes, when you pull it too.
He sat up on the bed and pulled me closer on the floor, to kneel between his legs. The heat was unbearable and it had been raining for hours. Outside it was quite chilly. His fists clenched in my long strands of messy hair. The smoke from his cigarette was everywhere.
Be a good girl, he said. Be a good girl and open up. One day, he stated between drags, one day I’ll make an honest woman out of you. I’ll make sure when you say yes your mouth won’t be full.
He kissed me afterwards because I was important.
I miss you.
When he aimed for the vodka glass that night, he took my whiskey. He drank it anyway. He was plastered beyond belief, the sort of inebriation that makes one’s eyes water and the lashes cling together for support. He was clumsily toying with the ring I’d given him. I like to believe they left it with the ashes, but it’s probably not the case.
He met a client he had, the sort of corporate cunt a woman fucks and not the other way around. A reverse, realistic Christian Grey with less money and less dick. The second he saw me, he hated me. I was far from his ideal woman, far from bones and skin that smelled of expensive variations of vanilla. I drank more than him. He made a comment about it.
My he turned to the cunt, lashes clinging and all, ran a hair through his beautiful need-a-wash bed hair and grinned. I’m fucking her, he said. I’m fucking her and she’s my favourite. He must have sobered up some because his eyes were no longer watery, but fierce and loving. Right down her throat, he added.
I’d never felt more beautiful.
Come on now, posh guy. Your dick is more expensive than your tie.
He always whispered when we were in bed. I found it most intimate when his voice was rough. He smelled of Marlboro red and the future doctissimo viagra 25. I used to look at the ceiling and paint our portrait in his words. He used to touch my hipbone in triangular patterns. I’ve always loved triangles.
His car carried the smell of Fahrenheit. Occasionally it smelled like weed and sex and what could only be two people loving each other.
Tell me you love me, he said. I was peeling potatoes in a rare display of my housewife side. He was an occasional thing, a rather interesting distraction when I had to wait for my love to come home. He said it again and this time I laughed. I enjoy your dick, I replied, nothing more. He pouted. Stood behind me and hugged me. His hands held on to my tits. That’s a shame, he said. I’d give you everything you ever wanted.
I turned in his embrace. Can you bring him home faster, I asked. He sighed. You crazy bitch, he offered affectionately. You stupid girl, he kept saying. I could love you like no one else ever will, he told me.
I pulled his head back, bit his neck. How about you eat my food and fuck me well, and I might consider going out with you once, I asked. He snorted. If you do that thing you always do, he started, his hands on my ass, I’ll do whatever you want.
I smiled. Dinner was late that night, but my love returned early. I don’t know if it was the other proving his love, but it worked.
Mornings have always been harsh to me. On the worst of them, it felt like I was Andersen’s Little Match Girl looking through a window to the future I would never have. He would open his eyes and look at me. What are you thinking about, he’d ask. Well, love, I’d say with a sigh, can you plan a wedding from the bed?
It was our little joke, talking about getting married. I bought him a cock ring once, just to prove that I was serious. His voice first thing in the morning was the preemptive bliss of the life we would spend together. When he complained about pulling a muscle, or wanting coffee, it felt like there was little more to care for in the world other than stroking his stubbled cheek.
He’d smile and tell me all about it. The Western like modern fairy tale without the virgins and the castles. Who’d give you away, love, he’d ask, and I’d have to joke and tell him it would be him.
We’d fight over the wedding night: rough or gentle, then proceed to act it out, in a territorial role-play game of fucking and loving.
There was something about his smile. Not radiant, like romance novels would have people believe, but rather carrying the burden of undertones, of layers. There was him, and right under his skin there was another him, with the left corner of his mouth a fraction higher than before.
I heard a knuckle or two crack next to my ear. He shifted. I gasped. Above me; that’s when I think his smile was the most honest. When he shook his head to get the strands of hair out of his eyes. I lifted my hand and brushed them away.
Slow down, I told him. He raised an eyebrow. I’m not asking, I started and lost my breath for a moment because he shifted just so, I’m not as-as-king you to re-enact Lady Chatterley’s Lover, I said, you don’t love me like that. He stopped. Buried his head in my hair.
I held on to him, kept him on me, in me, with me. When he looked up again, his smile was there. It grew into a smirk, the familiarity of it safe and inviting. His fingers caught in my hair and pulled.
Only when I let you, he ordered. Only then.
When he came over that day I wouldn’t get out of bed. He let himself in and sat down on the bed. Picked up my guitar and played that folk song to me. I cried quietly. I lacked the energy for anything else.
Love, he said to me. Love, he started, and I couldn’t make the distinction between the noun and the endearment term. Come, he said, and I crawled into his arms. I crashed into him.
He kissed me; held me through the night. Slowly, when the sunrise came so did I.
I love you, he said. I love you more than anything else. I nodded. I knew pas de viagra.
He lit my cigarette, held it for me. You’ll be okay, he said, we’ll be okay. In his arms, where I was no more than a child mourning her favourite character’s death, it was quiet and warm. He brushed my hair back. Kissed my temple. Held me when he sank again and again. Later, when I was much better, back in make-up, I told him I like it when we make love. He smiled.