Time and the Hour Runs Through the Roughest Day
XXX
Lester gently kisses the angry bruise left by a friend’s desperate punch on Lyle’s face. He doesn’t really care how very unlike him this softness is, not now.
“He’s blaming me.” Lyle’s voice breaks the suffocating silence.
“He’s mourning. He’ll come round.”
Lyle shrugs, his hazel eyes betray his doubts and Lester can’t find the words to comfort his young lover. A tentative kiss is all he can offer, and a tight, desperate embrace as the kiss turns heated and demanding. And just for a short moment he allows himself to feel infinitely glad, because it didn’t happen to them.
XXX
The smoke stings her eyes as she lights one cigarette after the other, just to throw them away after a dozen impatient drags. The phone’s ringing again - the person must know Ryan wouldn’t sleep tonight - but she ignores it. Her eyes are fixed on the bedroom door. She’s not sure if it’s locked, didn’t dare to try, too scared to find tears in Ryan’s eyes. She’s never seen him cry before and doesn’t want to start now. Ignoring the trembling of her hands Sam extinguishes her cigarette and starts packing.
She doesn’t want to be around when Ryan falls apart.
XXX
Water. Cold. Transparent. Wet. Cold. Water.
Wet bandages. He’ll be angry. I don’t care. You do. Shut up. Water droplets turning blood-red. Painting hands skin tiles floor room air world with death. Stop it. You’re not fucking Lady… what’s that play called again? Focus. Water. Clean. Forget. Focus.
“You ok?”
No. I’m unravelling.
“Go away.”
Coward. Tell him. Tell him what you did.
“You’ve been showering long enough. Come.”
“I’m not a bloody invalid.”
“With all due respect, you’ve been shot.”
“With all due respect, you’re annoying.”
Lips. Warm. Tongue. Wet. Warm. Lips.
Don’t kiss me. You’ll catch your death.
XXX
The rising sun is painting the sky in a reddish glow, as an all too fitting finale of the past 24 hours. He takes another sip from his cold coffee and grimaces at his own reflection in the window-glass. There’s really no question as to what he must do, the decision has been made quickly, if unwillingly. Too much has happened lately; the young man’s death not even the gravest of all. He reluctantly picks up the phone and waits until his secretary’s voice answers.
“Yes, Prime Minister?”
He allows himself another silent sigh before he says, “Call Christine Johnson.”
Lester gently kisses the angry bruise left by a friend’s desperate punch on Lyle’s face. He doesn’t really care how very unlike him this softness is, not now.
“He’s blaming me.” Lyle’s voice breaks the suffocating silence.
“He’s mourning. He’ll come round.”
Lyle shrugs, his hazel eyes betray his doubts and Lester can’t find the words to comfort his young lover. A tentative kiss is all he can offer, and a tight, desperate embrace as the kiss turns heated and demanding. And just for a short moment he allows himself to feel infinitely glad, because it didn’t happen to them.
XXX
The smoke stings her eyes as she lights one cigarette after the other, just to throw them away after a dozen impatient drags. The phone’s ringing again - the person must know Ryan wouldn’t sleep tonight - but she ignores it. Her eyes are fixed on the bedroom door. She’s not sure if it’s locked, didn’t dare to try, too scared to find tears in Ryan’s eyes. She’s never seen him cry before and doesn’t want to start now. Ignoring the trembling of her hands Sam extinguishes her cigarette and starts packing.
She doesn’t want to be around when Ryan falls apart.
XXX
Water. Cold. Transparent. Wet. Cold. Water.
Wet bandages. He’ll be angry. I don’t care. You do. Shut up. Water droplets turning blood-red. Painting hands skin tiles floor room air world with death. Stop it. You’re not fucking Lady… what’s that play called again? Focus. Water. Clean. Forget. Focus.
“You ok?”
No. I’m unravelling.
“Go away.”
Coward. Tell him. Tell him what you did.
“You’ve been showering long enough. Come.”
“I’m not a bloody invalid.”
“With all due respect, you’ve been shot.”
“With all due respect, you’re annoying.”
Lips. Warm. Tongue. Wet. Warm. Lips.
Don’t kiss me. You’ll catch your death.
XXX
The rising sun is painting the sky in a reddish glow, as an all too fitting finale of the past 24 hours. He takes another sip from his cold coffee and grimaces at his own reflection in the window-glass. There’s really no question as to what he must do, the decision has been made quickly, if unwillingly. Too much has happened lately; the young man’s death not even the gravest of all. He reluctantly picks up the phone and waits until his secretary’s voice answers.
“Yes, Prime Minister?”
He allows himself another silent sigh before he says, “Call Christine Johnson.”