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His first glimpse of her struck him with the overwhelming desire to wrap his hands in those dark curls of hers. Not love at first sight, just some base instinct uncurling in his spine. Months later, he'd lost himself forever to the way she'd clawed at the bedsheets, and the snap of her neck when he'd yanked her head back. They'd been made to hurt one another; tailored, in stunning evidence of intelligent design's capricious malice, to light each others' darkness. Stars poking holes in a construction paper sky.
Until their dissonance realigned itself as synergy.
The changes were subtle at first. The sharp thrill at having her in his arms never quite faded, merely downgraded to a minor twinge in his spine. Her body became the most natural resting place for his hands, no longer the adventure of uncharted territory. In short? Boredom.
"'morning, baby."
"How'd you sleep, gorgeous?" Unsurprisingly, he responded to her without thinking. Even their persistent chatter, the constant communication, had become less a wondrous flaw of nature - when they spent every morning in the perpetual, inevitable orbit of habit, suddenly love rendered itself common enough to disregard.
"Mm, pretty well." She ran a hand through her hair and poured herself a cup of coffee; it didn't even surprise him that she'd abandoned her daily cup of tea and appropriated his love of black coffee. "What time're you heading out this morning?"
He glanced at his watch; 8:30 am. "Should've been out a half hour ago, so. Soon?"
Six months prior, it would've been excuse enough to back her up against the wall and ravish her. Half an hour delay, why not half an hour more? Just enough time to bite into her - he'd always loved her best when her lips were red; smothered bruised and swollen.
But she wasn't that woman anymore. She didn't even walk like that woman; she carried herself differently. She was less, somehow. And for his part, he'd hinged his own spirited hedonism on the taste of whiskey on her lips, the flush of her skin against his kisses. They'd wilted alongside each other, and the people they were now bored him.
"Home for dinner?"
He laughed, endeared at least, by the charming in-jokes their domestic bliss fostered. "I should hope so, lover. Who else is going to cook it?"
Her response was a giggle, a wink and a kiss. For a brief heartbeat, she was lightning in his arms again. The woman who'd shaken glitter onto his skin with even the briefest contact. "I could get something delivered!"
The woman he'd fallen in love with had danced in lightning storms. Rushed out the door without blow-drying her hair. Fucked like she wanted to tear the flesh from his back, all fingers tongue and teeth. Spilled whiskey from her mouth to his, swallowed him whole for the sheer pleasure of it. She hadn't, however, once offered to have dinner on the table - the closest she'd ever come to cooking a meal was getting slammed up against the fridge, one impromptu evening in the kitchen.
"No worries, babygirl." He planted a kiss on her lips, tempted to wrap a hand in her curls and pull. He missed the bite of her teeth, the impossible arch of her spine. Her weight on his hips, the taste of her lipstick smeared over his mouth. "I'll be home in time to make us something nice."
In the old days, she'd had that parasitic tendency to curl up in his gut, licking his insides like a contented feline. He'd woken every morning to the unbearable heat of her; slid into sleep having crushed the air from her lungs. They'd screamed and laughed; tussled and fought and lied. If he'd ever been reticent to initiate, she'd have stripped his clothes off with her teeth. But as familiarity tempered her, she'd stopped flitting from temptation to satisfaction, then right back again. And he'd stopped searching for a way to stay one step ahead of her.
"I love you."
"Love you too, babe." And he did, docile little kitten that she was these days. Loved the cold touch of her toes in the dead of night. The constant tussle for blankets and pillows. The way their mornings mapped out around and through each another, never colliding. The way they'd spent their early twenties ricocheting off one another, only to find themselves compressed into a single unit under the pressure of adulthood.
He loved her, yes always. But he'd spend just as long wishing love hadn't ruined them.
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Long weekends aren't long enough, I'm tired, my room's a mess despite my attempts to clean this evening. I miss Chris, I want him back here with me, and Christmas is too far away.
Trip Highlights: bought a new camera, did a photoshoot with Nicole Dee (I'll post the pictures once she's finished editing the set), watched Where the Wild Things are, rented a car for dirt cheap, spent a day holed up in a disproportionately swank hotel room, snuggled cuddled and kissed.
Also, check out how adorable my hair looks when it's chopped short. Also also, check out how adorable we are when we're together.
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It's strange how easily emotion translates to physicality; enough heartbreak and your breath just stops. The silence you've always craved turns corrosive; you find yourself longing for the echoes of senseless noise. Whatever will stop the doubt and the fear circling through your system.
Your brain blacks out. There's thought there, but the focus eludes you - it's hard enough to remember to turn the oven off, how can you be expected to identify and catalogue the crippled emotions wreaking havoc on your insides? Your rib cage has shrunk, you're sure of it; it's the only explanation for those tiny gasping breaths, the only oxygen you seem able to pull into your lungs. Your heartbeat alternates between racing ominously and threatening to stop completely; there's a raven pecking its way out of your stomach, as if opening you up from the inside out is the only way to let in enough sunlight and warmth to banish the chills wracking your body.
And through all of it, the expectation. Hope for the future replaced not by fear but instead, by the absolute conviction that one day, the words will kill you.
"I love you, I swear I do. Or at least, I used to."
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| I know you don't actually care, because your crazed teenage hormones have blinded you to all reason and logic, but the Vampire Diaries were actually originally written and published about fourteen years ago - while you were little more than a twinkle in your mother's eye, let's say. So before you go on your annoying tirades about how everyone and everything vampiric is a copy of Stephanie Meyer's atrocious attempts at writing good literature, it'd do you well to get your facts straight. Twilight was written well after the Vampire Diaries. And after Buffy the Vampire Slayer. And after Interview with a Vampire. And after even the Sookie Stackhouse novels - the books, of course, that True Blood is based on. And all of these were written well after Dracula. Your fascination with the undead is nothing new, nor is it unique. And if anyone's the failed copycat, it's your literary idol, Stephanie Meyer, who comes at the very end of long line of vampire literary tradition. | | |
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