[9.2] Post Coital Discussions
They don't talk much. It's become such a habit they forgo talking. She sleeps and he watches television and when she wakes up he has dinner all ready.
She likes to use the chopsticks while he favors the fork. He doesn't want to be stabbed again so he keeps the sharp pointy objects away from her. Though he's sure she could do enough damage with a chopstick. But blood is harder to get out of wood than metal and she'd have to give up her food.
"You need a shave," she tells him between mouthfuls of noodles, licking the extra duck sauce he'd ordered for her off her lips.
He agrees and changes the channel before flicking a piece of fortune cookie at her.
Laughing, she almost catches it, but doesn't. Five-second rule doesn't count if it lands in your lap so she takes her sweet time. He watches her intently and smirks when the cookie slips through her fingers and into his waiting palm. He knows better than to eat it himself.
Every time is like the last time and their teeth meet for a moment, hit against each other, catch against lips, sharp and rough like it's the end of the line. It probably is.
It's harsh and bruising but it's all fucking theirs so it's worth the pain.
"How're you feelin'?" he asks, sliding his hand to her shoulder and pulling the sheet tighter around her while she pokes her chopsticks in and out of the white box quickly.
Her response is always the same, sore, and she's always half grateful, half amused that he doesn't ask why. She thinks he knows better. Daddy didn't raise an idiot, just a jackass.
They don't talk much really. Until one of them mentions the elephant perpetually in the room and all the talking disappears like heat through an open door. After a while she'll comfort him, platitudes she doesn't always mean but ones he always needs to hear.
They joke and banter in the bathtub, the teasing and taunting rinsing away the residue of the shit lives they have the same way the water rinses the shampoo from her hair. It surrounds them, in little bubbles and when she curves to kiss his chest she can taste the soap.
They talk about Hell, what it would be like, what it wouldn't be like, what he'd be like. Most of the time he's grateful he's not there, but sometimes he resents it.
He says he'd miss her and she kisses him. They both know the truth, they just won't acknowledge it. The truth is part of their elephant.
Later, when they're barely dry and her hair is hanging in damp curls, she sits on his lap. Her knees press into his hips and his fingers dig into her waist and she smiles at him and he trusts her.
Their elephant sits and waits to be brought up again.
Sorry bucko, the elephant has left the building.
She likes to use the chopsticks while he favors the fork. He doesn't want to be stabbed again so he keeps the sharp pointy objects away from her. Though he's sure she could do enough damage with a chopstick. But blood is harder to get out of wood than metal and she'd have to give up her food.
"You need a shave," she tells him between mouthfuls of noodles, licking the extra duck sauce he'd ordered for her off her lips.
He agrees and changes the channel before flicking a piece of fortune cookie at her.
Laughing, she almost catches it, but doesn't. Five-second rule doesn't count if it lands in your lap so she takes her sweet time. He watches her intently and smirks when the cookie slips through her fingers and into his waiting palm. He knows better than to eat it himself.
Every time is like the last time and their teeth meet for a moment, hit against each other, catch against lips, sharp and rough like it's the end of the line. It probably is.
It's harsh and bruising but it's all fucking theirs so it's worth the pain.
"How're you feelin'?" he asks, sliding his hand to her shoulder and pulling the sheet tighter around her while she pokes her chopsticks in and out of the white box quickly.
Her response is always the same, sore, and she's always half grateful, half amused that he doesn't ask why. She thinks he knows better. Daddy didn't raise an idiot, just a jackass.
They don't talk much really. Until one of them mentions the elephant perpetually in the room and all the talking disappears like heat through an open door. After a while she'll comfort him, platitudes she doesn't always mean but ones he always needs to hear.
They joke and banter in the bathtub, the teasing and taunting rinsing away the residue of the shit lives they have the same way the water rinses the shampoo from her hair. It surrounds them, in little bubbles and when she curves to kiss his chest she can taste the soap.
They talk about Hell, what it would be like, what it wouldn't be like, what he'd be like. Most of the time he's grateful he's not there, but sometimes he resents it.
He says he'd miss her and she kisses him. They both know the truth, they just won't acknowledge it. The truth is part of their elephant.
Later, when they're barely dry and her hair is hanging in damp curls, she sits on his lap. Her knees press into his hips and his fingers dig into her waist and she smiles at him and he trusts her.
Their elephant sits and waits to be brought up again.
Sorry bucko, the elephant has left the building.