Naked

“Liz,” he sighed, running a hand across his face, a worn expression cast down to his paper. “Would you mind keeping it down, I can practically hear you thinking.”

It was Autumn, and like any other instance at this time of the year, I was looking out of the window, mesmerised by the colours. There was a warm place in my chest for the golden and amber leaves. The decaying tree’s pulled at the twine attached to my heart. The beauty of Winter’s doorstep, however it did not seem to please Oliver.

He had been writing all day. The apartment was always a dangerous place to be lurking when he was writing; it was like treading on egg-shells. And, just like I was gazing wistfully at the orange oak tree, Oliver was muttering as his pen scratched over the lines of his notepad. Always the same, never changing.

I moved myself away from the large window of our living room, instead busying myself in the kitchen. It would be best to leave him alone for a while, and tea needed seeing to anyway. Lasagne, maybe. Vegetarian of course.

When cooking, I often found myself suppressing laughter. It all felt a bit stupid, really. Cooking for two when only one of us would really be eating it. I’d pick around my plate, stealing a few mouthfuls here and there; only when Oliver was keeping an eye on me of course. Just enough to keep him quiet. Then I’d massacre the rest of it, leave it in a heaped mess and throw it away whilst Oli did the dishes. Always the same. Never changing.

Chopping up vegetables and crushing garlic; what a show. I wonder what anyone else would make of it all. All of this wasted food, Oliver’s wasted money. He paid for everything, of course. Why busy myself with work, when I needn’t worry about money? That’s what he’d always say. He was here to take care of me, apparently.

That was a sham, too. Sure, he made sure I never had any financial worries. He took me on holidays with him, treated me to fancy dinners, bought me expensive gifts. He even loved me. But Oliver knew exactly what was going on; how could he not? I didn’t want his help, for it was solely down to him why this had occurred in the first place. But whilst I was slowly wasting away, right under his nose, he never, not once, approached me about it.

For someone who was supposed to love you, they didn’t take a great deals notice.

All of this molly-coddling from Oliver had made me selfish over the years. When he wouldn’t pay me attention, I craved for it. I was a clingy girlfriend, I knew it. But in the same way, Oliver had become over-protective. Jealous, too.

We wanted too much of each other, wanted to keep the other all to ourselves. It wasn’t healthy.

Sometime later, whilst the Lasagne was baking in the oven, Oliver found me sat alone at the breakfast bar, reading a magazine. He scowled at me before making a B-line for the fridge to pull out a cold beer.

“What’re you cooking?” He grumbled, popping the cap from the bottle. When he’d taken a swig and left it on the counter, I saw where his tattooed fingers had left marks in the condensation.

Most of Oliver’s torso was adorned with tattoos. Whenever somebody asked what the ornate rose etched into his neck meant, or why his hand had been decorated with a fish-woman, he’d answer with a shrug and mutter, “S’just art, isn’t it.”

I pulled myself up from the seat to check on the meal in question. “Lasagne,” I told him, receiving a simple nod. It was hard to please, let alone impress Oliver.

We both hung lazily around the kitchen until the food was ready. When I’d dished it up we sat at the dining table, eating in silence. Oliver drank a beer, I drank a glass of wine. Always the same, never changing.

“How’s the writing going?”

Oliver stopped eating and went to say, or rather snap something, but seemed to stop himself with a sigh. “Don’t, Liz. I’m tired,” he said.

The band were in the late writing stages of a new album, and apparently this was a gruelling time for Oliver, being the main lyricist. He’d be moody for days, storming around the apartment, frustrated because something wouldn’t work right, or it wouldn’t fit. I’d find crumpled sheets everywhere, and the few that I’d rescue and read I found to be beautiful. For someone who didn’t speak all that much, he certainly had a way with words.

That’s what had made me fall in love with him. Ask someone, anyone, that had known Oliver and I since we’d met. They’ll tell you that not in a million years would they have pieced us together. Oliver was cocky, dark and quite the whore.

I was a fat little girl; a duckling that grew up into nothing more than a scrawny swan. I lost weight over the years; the more I grew to know Tom Sykes’ brother, the more I would desire to lose. I saw the girls that Oliver liked. Tall girls. Beautiful girls. Thin girls.

I hadn’t been any of those. So, with my only ambition for Oliver to acknowledge me, I began to force myself to transform. I grew up, and slowly, Oli started to take notice. I knew, even now, that I wasn’t good enough. My features weren’t perfectly symmetrical, my hair had split ends, and sometimes my clothes didn’t match. But Oliver told me I was beautiful. So I strived every day to make an effort.

I wore make-up and always made sure my roots were touched-up when needed. Dressing nicely was a must, especially when the boys were home from tour. Spending two hours in front of the mirror each morning had become a habit that I was used to know. It didn’t even faze Oli.

My half of the lasagne fell with a slop into the bottom of the bin. I rinsed the plated off and Oliver loaded them into the dish washer. We cleared the table together.

He left his writing alone for the rest of the night, though I could see he was restless whilst he stared at the TV screen. Always thinking. When we had first started living together, it had bugged me. The way he would fidget and twitch, until finally he had to pull himself up in the middle of the night to write something down. Now I didn’t even wake up when the hallway light would flick on at two in the morning.

Just like he didn’t bother to question me when I would scamper to the bathroom after every meal, to rid myself of what I hadn’t left for the bin.

We watched a film that night; Fight Club. It was one of our favourites. We had, a year or two ago, enjoyed it, laughed together, quoted it together. But slowly our laughter withered away, and now all there was to accompany Brad Pitt’s mind games was Oliver’s fingers tapping on the arm of the couch.

When we went to bed it was nearly mid-night. I showered first, then him. He dried his hair whilst I threw cushions from the bed, and he climbed in ten minutes behind myself, switching off his lamp and rolling over so his back was facing me. I lay awake for a while.

“Go to sleep, Liz,” he whispered soon. I hated how he knew my exact state of mind, even when he couldn’t read my face. He was very good at reading my face. Always knowing when I was mad with him, or upset. So that was why he rolled over, this time to face me.

In the darkness I couldn’t make out much of his face. I saw the shape of his mouth, saw his nose and the light in his breath-taking eyes, but everything else was too dim. His hand reached out and stroked over my hip, slipping my night shirt up just a little so his hand could warm my skin. He knew I was always cold at night.

“I love you, you know,” he pulled me towards him, tucking me into his side and bringing me close so that he could press his wet lips to my collar-bone.

I clung to him, my hands locking around him. This was our selfishness. Our neediness. I wanted Oliver as much as Oliver wanted me. But neither of us were rude enough to simply take.

Oliver’s lips played around my neck, asking me to give myself over. I sighed into his shoulder, breathed in the freshly washed smell of his hair. He could have me, whenever he wanted. And he knew it. Above all else that Oliver knew about me, he knew that I was at his every whim.

He pulled at my top more, exposing more cold skin, and I told him, “I love you, too.”