Sour Cherry

The bittersweetness of this this reunion. Him, her, me. Him, her. Him, her. But it doesn't spoil the sweet taste; like a Jolly Rancher. Sweet, sour, the blending of the two flavors hot on your tongue, makes your mouth water. That's what she does to me, makes my mouth water. With delight, lust, intrigue, hate, a mixture of them all? I'm not sure, and by this point it's the last thing I care about.

The politeness at first. "Yes, hello. Good to see you too. I've been great, the fall line is blossoming. Oh, yes, he had me love struck since day one." Lie. "He's all I need." Then why am I meeting you in your hotel suite in a few hours?

The hours pass slowly with the same monotony of it all. Champagne poured by the gallons, everyone's a bit tipsy by now. The alcohol warming the blood and loosening the tongue.

The familiar brush of fingertips across my lower back, through my Versace suite. "Follow me to the corner." I'll follow you anywhere, sweetheart. You could willingly lure me into the depths of hell with those eyes. My fallen angel. "The dark one."

She wastes no time, pushing me up against the wall. "I want you, I need you. Now," she whispers, no, purrs into my ear. You wouldn't be about to resist it either, if you heard that voice. Like black velvet, soft to the touch. Creates friction against the skin. That's what we need now, friction.

We make our way, oh so subtly, to her suite. The husband, beau, whatever, downing glass after glass of the crisp whiskey stocked in the bar. "Another round, bartender, you're not being paid to stand there!"

We fill the elevator up with steam. Hot, moist tendrils of steam that make our breathes shallow. Her body rubbing against mine. There it is, that much-needed friction.

We stumble into the hotel room. We don't have time to turn on the lights. A maze to the bed, but we make it just in time. Ripping the buttons of my shirt, placing featherlight touches of her lips across my chest. "This is what I need, you're what I need." There it is again, that breathy growl I simply can't refuse.

A hurricane of clothes follow, the fabric hitting the floor like hail. Watch out; don't get hit. A tornado of breathes, moans, gasps. Nails clawing into backs, sure to leave faint red marks in the morning. But now, it's called for; demanded, even.

The slight curve of her lower abdomen. She's not perfect, there's flaws speckled across her body. A freckle there, a scar here. And here. I put my lips to them, all I taste is the salty sweat and the bitterness of the past. She's tainted, touched, and I love it. I can't get enough of it.

The rhyme that our bodies create. It goes ba-bum ba-bum. Our own personal song, only for to hear. Then, a rising, like a roller coaster. It clinks along bit by bit, then lets go, falling fast. Prickles of color, fireworks, an eruption of feeling. Then it's over. We lay there, soaking it in, a shock to the senses. It takes time to recover. Then, she abruptly sits up, reaching for her pressed blouse, now laying crumpled on the floor. Winkled, imperfection, my proof, their proof, that it happened. That we willed it. I reach for her, murmurs of protest follow. In a sense, on my knees, begging pleading, kisses on her shoulder blade. "Don't go, not yet, not now. I need you."

She turns to me, the regret pooling in her eyes already. Am I such a mistake to her? "No, my husband needs me."

She dresses, leaves. No farewell touches, no good-byes, just looks that burn through each other's souls. We know we share our secret, the other one cannot forget. I dress soon after, can't stay in this room. I'm not the only one that's laid in that bed, and the thought twists my stomach, the acids writhing and forcing their way into my throat. But no, not this time, I say to them, and force them back down. I stumble back to my own room. Stumbling around, burnt out and yet still hungry for more. My room; less lavish, but no air of tension that strangles you at the threshold. Besides, all I need is the mini bar. Cleaning out the contents in five minutes straight, I stare at the ceiling. "I command you to stop spinning," I said to it. Attempting to raise a hand in protest, to make it more emphatic, but it continues on it's down spiral to crush me.

My eyes, they droop, heavier and heavier. I will myself to stay awake, maybe a late night call from the reaper after her husband's in a whiskey induced coma-like sleep. After much protests, I soon follow him. This sleep, if you've felt it, you know you don't dream. It creeps up on you, surprises you, and in the morning, you question yourself about your slumber. Did I really sleep? Yes, you've got the hangover to prove it.

The worst part of all though, that tops all the rest. Like daggers being flung from all sides, penetrating my flesh. I don't remember the exact motion of her against me, I don't remember how long we lay intertwined. We will always be intertwined, my dark angel and I.