T. Oso (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
campkilkare) wrote2008-12-26 07:41 pm
campkilkare) wrote2008-12-26 07:41 pm
Entry tags:
Alice/Zora, ...dammit I just lost count...also sorry for the spam.
I waited for her at the diner Wednesday morning, but she didn't show up. Either whatever business she had took her straight from work, or she took me at my word that I wouldn't be there, even after I showed up that night. I don't know.
I spent the rest of the week at her place; I brought a suitcase and the Lord. There were seven locks on her door, I realized, and the fridge was now completely empty except for the olive oil and the ketchup. I filled it up.
She did not have a lot of personal effects, I discovered. I read some books I'd never heard of before, although they claimed to be NYT best sellers. The author was Eddie Toren. They were pretty good. I slept in her bed. It was comfortable, for as tired as she seemed.
I found her shoes, which puzzled me. There were almost no dresses or skirts in her closet, next to no make-up in her bathroom or jewelry around, but there was a chest full of high heeled pumps and wedges and leather boots with stacked heels; hundred and thousands of dollars worth of shoes. I tried to remember; except for the party, I'd only ever seen her in sneakers and what looked like combat boots. I didn't know her that well, of course. But it was strange. Not in a disquieting way--I wasn't scared of her. I was never scared of her. But I was starting to draw a picture of a fairly sad person. Beautiful and strong, but sad.
She came back in the middle of the night on Friday. She didn't say anything, just stripped off and slid into the bed, almost silently. I only woke up because I heard the click of all seven locks opening, and then of all seven locks closing again. I put my arms around her; she was like a stone, cold to the bone and hard all over.
"Zora," she said, and she kissed me, and I remember she touched my neck. That was strange.
I said, "Alice," and I started to rub her back and her arms and legs, and there was nothing sexual about it. After three days of doing it every chance we could get, and three days apart, yes, I touched her everywhere and it wasn't about sex. Not at all. She was hard as a stone, every muscle wound tight, and she would not have slept. I know it. She would have lay in that bed and stared at a point on the wall until the sun came up and I woke up with it, and maybe by then she would be able to function, but she would stay hard, like this.
It was more than an hour until she relaxed. After four when she slept, the ridged muscles of her back finally slack under my hands, and I slept, too, exhausted, my cheek against her shoulder and the twist of scar there. I knew she wouldn't like it but I was too tired to do anything but fall forward.
We woke up around dawn and made love, and went back to sleep. She slept for a long time.
I spent the rest of the week at her place; I brought a suitcase and the Lord. There were seven locks on her door, I realized, and the fridge was now completely empty except for the olive oil and the ketchup. I filled it up.
She did not have a lot of personal effects, I discovered. I read some books I'd never heard of before, although they claimed to be NYT best sellers. The author was Eddie Toren. They were pretty good. I slept in her bed. It was comfortable, for as tired as she seemed.
I found her shoes, which puzzled me. There were almost no dresses or skirts in her closet, next to no make-up in her bathroom or jewelry around, but there was a chest full of high heeled pumps and wedges and leather boots with stacked heels; hundred and thousands of dollars worth of shoes. I tried to remember; except for the party, I'd only ever seen her in sneakers and what looked like combat boots. I didn't know her that well, of course. But it was strange. Not in a disquieting way--I wasn't scared of her. I was never scared of her. But I was starting to draw a picture of a fairly sad person. Beautiful and strong, but sad.
She came back in the middle of the night on Friday. She didn't say anything, just stripped off and slid into the bed, almost silently. I only woke up because I heard the click of all seven locks opening, and then of all seven locks closing again. I put my arms around her; she was like a stone, cold to the bone and hard all over.
"Zora," she said, and she kissed me, and I remember she touched my neck. That was strange.
I said, "Alice," and I started to rub her back and her arms and legs, and there was nothing sexual about it. After three days of doing it every chance we could get, and three days apart, yes, I touched her everywhere and it wasn't about sex. Not at all. She was hard as a stone, every muscle wound tight, and she would not have slept. I know it. She would have lay in that bed and stared at a point on the wall until the sun came up and I woke up with it, and maybe by then she would be able to function, but she would stay hard, like this.
It was more than an hour until she relaxed. After four when she slept, the ridged muscles of her back finally slack under my hands, and I slept, too, exhausted, my cheek against her shoulder and the twist of scar there. I knew she wouldn't like it but I was too tired to do anything but fall forward.
We woke up around dawn and made love, and went back to sleep. She slept for a long time.