Mary Without Sound
Mid-West Love Affair: 1
Fingers Crossed, There Will Be Love
Just for the record, I’m completely caught off guard.
It sobers me up instantly.
His hands at the sides of my face keep his lips pressed to mine, and I can’t move.
Or maybe I just don’t want to.
“Wow. I…um,” I stammer for words, once he lets go. I swallow speechlessly and he backs away, turning pink.
“Uh…sorry?” he says, sounding uncertain.
I only allow us to stand awkwardly for about five seconds before I grab the front of his coat crash my lips back against his. This time, he’s the surprised one. I smile as I wait for him to compose himself and return the kiss. Another five seconds, and he remembers how to move his mouth against mine.
“Maybe…let’s go inside?” he finally asks, but not backing away from me. I barely remember that we’re still standing outside the apartment.
I smile sheepishly before stepping aside to let him unlock and push open the door. I kick off my shoes and shrug off my jacket.
His lips are attached to mine again as soon as he pushes the door closed, and I can’t think straight until we find ourselves tangled in the blankets on his bed.
Just for the record, our clothes stay on.
I play with his hands, running my fingers over his calloused palms.
“Do you want to know why I stopped talking?” I ask. He doesn’t answer for a minute or so.
“Only if you want me to know,” he finally replies.
I pause to collect my thoughts before I start talking, because I haven’t told anyone.
“I stopped talking after my brother died,” I state, and it’s odd to hear myself finally say it out loud.
He looks at me with this look full of pity for me. The same look people would give me when I stopped talking. It’s the same look I gave him when he told me about Casey, that being the only reason his sympathy doesn’t make me mad.
“Why?” he asks. He doesn’t say it in an obnoxious or demanding tone, like most people would (and have). I shrug. He’s looking at me intensely even while one of his hands lightly plays with a few strands of my hair.
“Because when people know something bad’s happened to you, all they want to do is talk about it. They pretend like they don’t, but they do. ‘Poor Mary…I’m sorry for your loss…” I mimic, rolling my eyes. “I didn’t want to talk to them. So I stopped.” I shrug again. “It’s easier than you think.”
He doesn’t answer, just takes my hand and starts kissing my palm.
I don’t mind that he doesn’t say anything.
Just for the record, I’m completely caught off guard.
It sobers me up instantly.
His hands at the sides of my face keep his lips pressed to mine, and I can’t move.
Or maybe I just don’t want to.
“Wow. I…um,” I stammer for words, once he lets go. I swallow speechlessly and he backs away, turning pink.
“Uh…sorry?” he says, sounding uncertain.
I only allow us to stand awkwardly for about five seconds before I grab the front of his coat crash my lips back against his. This time, he’s the surprised one. I smile as I wait for him to compose himself and return the kiss. Another five seconds, and he remembers how to move his mouth against mine.
“Maybe…let’s go inside?” he finally asks, but not backing away from me. I barely remember that we’re still standing outside the apartment.
I smile sheepishly before stepping aside to let him unlock and push open the door. I kick off my shoes and shrug off my jacket.
His lips are attached to mine again as soon as he pushes the door closed, and I can’t think straight until we find ourselves tangled in the blankets on his bed.
Just for the record, our clothes stay on.
I play with his hands, running my fingers over his calloused palms.
“Do you want to know why I stopped talking?” I ask. He doesn’t answer for a minute or so.
“Only if you want me to know,” he finally replies.
I pause to collect my thoughts before I start talking, because I haven’t told anyone.
“I stopped talking after my brother died,” I state, and it’s odd to hear myself finally say it out loud.
He looks at me with this look full of pity for me. The same look people would give me when I stopped talking. It’s the same look I gave him when he told me about Casey, that being the only reason his sympathy doesn’t make me mad.
“Why?” he asks. He doesn’t say it in an obnoxious or demanding tone, like most people would (and have). I shrug. He’s looking at me intensely even while one of his hands lightly plays with a few strands of my hair.
“Because when people know something bad’s happened to you, all they want to do is talk about it. They pretend like they don’t, but they do. ‘Poor Mary…I’m sorry for your loss…” I mimic, rolling my eyes. “I didn’t want to talk to them. So I stopped.” I shrug again. “It’s easier than you think.”
He doesn’t answer, just takes my hand and starts kissing my palm.
I don’t mind that he doesn’t say anything.
♠ ♠ ♠
thanks to: dorkosaur & yeahthatsme93.:)