“Wooyou?” he snorts. “I didn’t find a house last minute just for a night. This house belongs to me, I just almost never stay in it.”
“Wait…” I sit up to look at his face properly, and this time, he lets me. “Why do youowna house in a shithole?” The confusion must be obvious on my face.
He laughs again, throwing his head back against the pillow. “I grew up here. Left as soon as I could, but my whole family was around here. When my grandmother decided to go to a retirement home, she gifted me her house. In case I ever needed to stay here and so I wouldn’t have to stay at my brother’s or share a place. Plus, it makeswooingbeautiful women easier.”
I snort, staring at him and he arches a brow at me. I arch one back and he tilts his head in a “come here” way. I roll my eyes but oblige, placing my head back on his chest, one of my legs on top of his. His hands are stroking my thigh, my hip, my waist. A soft touch, leaving goosebumps to erupt in its wake.
Next thing I know, we’re both panting, laying on opposite ends of the bed. His hand is circling my calf and grazing little circles with his thumb.
“Not as long as I would have wanted to last, but at least it was more than five fucking minutes.”
I chuckle lightly. His breath is short and sleepy. I feel tired too. Goodtired. The kind of tiredness you only get after sex, with your muscles a little sore but still buzzing with the effort and the pleasure, your head a little dizzy but numb from everything else.
Didn’t get my orgasm, but I think I got closer to it. And it felt good anyway.
He gets up to use the bathroom and I sigh. The little alarm clock on the bedside table says it’s nearly 3:00a.m.
When he comes back and lays down on the spot he just vacated, I sit up to look at him. His eyes are closed. There is no tension visible on his rugged beautiful face. I can’t see the pain, the sadness or annoyance on his relaxed features anymore. Just calm. I left a couple love bites on his neck and clavicle. Better hope he doesn’t mind too much. Those can be embarrassing to explain when they’re from a casual hookup.
“Is this the moment you skin me alive to harvest my organs?” He asks in a sleepy voice, probably feeling my eyes on him.
“Can I draw you?”
He opens one eye to search my face.
“Do you want to pin my naked body to the bar wall?”
“No,” I laugh softly. “I won’t be able to make a copy of it, and I want it just for me, anyway.”
“Mhmh,” he shakes his head, “I have a copy machine. I want one too.”
“Deal.”
He pauses, hesitant, before adding, “do you need me to be awake?”
“Not necessarily.”
My sketchbook is in my bag, discarded next to the bedroom door. I use the bathroom quickly before grabbing it and settle down on the floor, my back against the wall. Quickly, I can hear his breathing even out, deep in sleep. And I draw him, smiling sometimes when I think about how different the man on this sheet of paper is from the ‘Grumpy Late Guy, in a shithole on a rainy Wednesday’.
When I’m done, I study it. Covered by the sheet from the waist down, leaving his toned stomach and chest on display. His ringed hand holding the white sheet at his hips, the other arm folded behind his head under the pillow, showing a large bicep. His head tilted to the side, disheveled hair partially hiding his closed eyes. The two bruising love bites on display. I smile as I nameit ‘Just Fucked — not-so Grumpy anymore’ and sign it ‘Prue’.
I pull the sketch off and instantly start a new one from memories. Him at the restaurant, playing the Storytelling game on me, with a smile and that flirtatious glint in his eye. The slightly crooked nose, the dimple on his chin, the faint laugh lines at the corner of his eyes, the relaxed wide shoulders. ‘Flirty Late Guy, missing his ferry on purpose on a rainy Wednesday.’ – ‘Prue’.
The alarm clock says 5:30a.m. Not-so Grumpy Guy did not move an inch. I put my clothes back on and look for the copy machine, finding it in the next room, just like he said it was. After a little bit of fumbling, I go back to the room with the two sketches and their copies. He’s turned on his side, his face buried in the pillow. I leave the two copies on the unoccupied pillow next to his and go back to the bathroom to fix my hair in front of the mirror. As soon as they are back in a ponytail, I can see the little love bites and slight teeth marks on my own skin. Looks like he too got a bit carried away.
With the two sketches in my bag, I leave the house silently with a distracted smile.
It felt good to let loose. My last relationship ended over a year ago and it feels lonely sometimes. Jack keeps telling me to go out, meet people and enjoy myself so he can live vicariously through me. But I am not a one night stand kind of girl—or maybe I am now—and knowing we never stay put in the same place for too long, I can never imagine myself dating. Why would I risk falling in love with someone just to move to the other side of the country a couple of months later? I can’t. Hence why my dating life is a desert.
But after all, I can’t really complain. I could date if I wanted to. Jack can’t. His last boyfriend dumped him two years after he finished college when his condition suddenly worsened. He’s been alone for seven years. Each year losing a little more of his mobility. Each year struggling a little more to breathe. Each year his heart weakening. But he’s never complaining, always trying to keep on living, seeing the bright side, pushing me to pursue drawing, to keep dreaming, storytelling. But never pushing me away, like he knows I need him near, to know he’s fine.
On my drive home, I realize that again, I never asked ‘Not-so Grumpy Flirty Guy’ his actual name.
3
A LONG TIME TO BE IN PAIN
Jack: I woke up to an empty house.
