[lj idol] week fourteen | "it's been cold for years, won't you let it lie..."
[a deleted scene]
*
She’s naked.
Draped, liquid-loose limbed over the armchair in the centre of the room.
He walks around her with barely a second glance. Shrugs out of his overcoat and throws it onto the bed in the same way he did last night.
In the same way he will again, tomorrow.
She plays her role by not bothering with a display of modesty they both would know to be false.
There’s a cigarette poised between two fingers of her right hand.
Un-lit.
It is but one piece of the picture she is painting.
Nothing more.
Her left rests between her parted thighs, still.
For now.
He loosens his tie but leaves it mostly in place. Removes his wristwatch and sets it carefully on the bedside table.
Eight forty three.
PM.
They have seventeen minutes left.
His socks are dark puddles next to his rain damp shoes when she speaks.
“I hate you,” she says. And she sounds surprised, like maybe she’s confessing to something new. Something unknown.
His back is to her.
He allows himself a spare beat to imagine her face. The way her lips might have curled themselves around the consonants and vowels she’s just released.
He hears movements, skin on leather and then…
Footsteps on plush carpet.
A door closes, softly. Little more than a whisper of wood on wood and air.
He knows without turning that the room is empty now, save for him. His belt, unbuckled.
The second hand on his watch ticks, ticks, ticks. Audible.
Mocking.
There should be fourteen minutes left.
This is not how goes.
*
previously on...
introduction | jayus | the missing stair | in another castle | nobody can ride your back if your back's not bent | build a better mouse-trap | step on a crack, break your mother's back | yes, and... | the recency effect | barrel of monkeys | open topic
*
She’s naked.
Draped, liquid-loose limbed over the armchair in the centre of the room.
He walks around her with barely a second glance. Shrugs out of his overcoat and throws it onto the bed in the same way he did last night.
In the same way he will again, tomorrow.
She plays her role by not bothering with a display of modesty they both would know to be false.
There’s a cigarette poised between two fingers of her right hand.
Un-lit.
It is but one piece of the picture she is painting.
Nothing more.
Her left rests between her parted thighs, still.
For now.
He loosens his tie but leaves it mostly in place. Removes his wristwatch and sets it carefully on the bedside table.
Eight forty three.
PM.
They have seventeen minutes left.
His socks are dark puddles next to his rain damp shoes when she speaks.
“I hate you,” she says. And she sounds surprised, like maybe she’s confessing to something new. Something unknown.
His back is to her.
He allows himself a spare beat to imagine her face. The way her lips might have curled themselves around the consonants and vowels she’s just released.
He hears movements, skin on leather and then…
Footsteps on plush carpet.
A door closes, softly. Little more than a whisper of wood on wood and air.
He knows without turning that the room is empty now, save for him. His belt, unbuckled.
The second hand on his watch ticks, ticks, ticks. Audible.
Mocking.
There should be fourteen minutes left.
This is not how goes.
*
previously on...
introduction | jayus | the missing stair | in another castle | nobody can ride your back if your back's not bent | build a better mouse-trap | step on a crack, break your mother's back | yes, and... | the recency effect | barrel of monkeys | open topic