Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 52476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
“I’m not okay,” she admits, a sadness seemingly lifting up the corners of her lips before she takes a sip of the sweet wine. Her dark red lipstick leaves an imprint on the clear glass.
“Is there anything I can do?” I ask, wishing I could go back and fix it all. But just like shards of a broken mirror, it’ll never be the same again even if I could mend all the pieces and make it seemingly whole once more.
She only shakes her head slightly and then her amber eyes meet mine. “How are you?”
“I’ve been better,” I answer although I hold so much back. How is it that even after all of this, I still can’t give her the honesty that begs to be spoken?
“I’m sorry,” she whispers and retreats to her wine, admitting, “I wish I knew how to make it better, but I don’t.”
“You’re with him?” I have to ask. I have to know for sure. Seeing him in bed with her … I can’t wrap my mind around it. How I could love someone so deeply, yet hold back because someone else needs her love more. It’s as if I’m wrapped in barbed wire and I don’t know how it happened or how to escape, but either way, I simply stay as still as I can so the razors don’t cut any deeper.
“I was,” she answers and both of us watch her thin fingers glide down the stem of the glass. “I was with him yesterday,” she tells me.
“You love him?”
With her hair pulled away from her face, styled in a high bun and her sheer black blouse hanging delicately off her shoulders, she can’t hide her expression. It’s one that clearly displays sorrow. Not for herself; the melancholy is saved for me.
“I do,” she answers simply and then takes in an uneasy breath, pushing her half glass of wine away from her. “I didn’t mean for any of this—”
“I know,” I say, cutting her off and turn my body to face the bar so I can stare straight ahead at the worn wooden dartboard once again. “I didn’t mean for it to happen either.”
Even as I feel her slipping away, I haven’t a clue what to say to her. Everything that comes to mind would only make things worse, it would only tangle the wire that much tighter around my throat. I have to say something, though.
“You know, even if I’m not with you, even if you never kiss me again, I’ll still love you.” The feeling of loss coats my confession. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Funny.” She manages a sad smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I was about to say the same to you, but it sounded too much like goodbye.”
“I never did like goodbyes,” I comment if for no other reason than to end it, but she doesn’t let it go.
“You’ll let me go? You’ll be all right if I’m with him? You won’t hate me?”
“I promise. I’ll be all right. I’ll let you go.” With a nod, she accepts my answer and the air is different between us.
“Another drink?” I ask even though hers isn’t gone yet.
She only nods, her eyes turning glossy. “Another drink.”
Delilah
A hot shower can wash away a world of hurt. Something about the cleansing heat lies to the mind and whispers that it’s all gone, it’s all going to be all right and that the filth and dirt that wish to linger won’t come back tomorrow.
Even with my eyes wide open staring at the tile in my shower, I listen to the promises and let myself believe it’s all behind us now.
Taking my time, I dry myself without a hurry to do a damn thing. I let my lush curls create a halo around my face and accept myself for all that I’ve become.
When I step out of the bathroom and the red dials of the clock blink in the telling fashion that the power’s been tripped, I feel the pull of a soft smile.
I don’t think of my gun; there isn’t an ounce of fear that runs through me. Instead there’s a warmth of knowing. Maybe it’s because I feel his presence already. The air is different—easier, calmer and more peaceful. As if he alone is my fate and what makes it all make sense.
There is no thinking, no torture, no pain. Only him and I.
“Have you thought about it?” he asks me and I hum an answer as I open the top drawer in search of something to wear. With the towel still wrapped around me, I settle on a simple black satin camisole and matching boy shorts.
“Have I thought about what?” I question back without even seeing Christopher yet. The towel drops around my feet in a heap with a soft thud and when I look up Christopher’s waiting for me, stalking toward me.