Status: Up and running!
I Thought You Said It Meant Nothing
Two
6:00 pm, Oli's mum's house
Kai. Blonde hair; long, and dark at the roots - all red-cheeked, and grey-eyed. I remember his lips: hard, strong, but so soft you could lose yourself in them. I so want to lose myself in them still. But that was five years ago, and age hardens all things. I bet he doesn't even remember me.
I've been home 37 times since I first left. 37 times and I've not seen him once. I wish I could remember the shape of his face - the angle of his eye brows, or the length of his nose. I only remember vague things. I could look at photos, but I can't bring myself to do that any more than I can bring myself to visit him.
I'm alone tonight, again. I'm always alone these days. Eventually, even mindless, endless, sex gets boring. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to see him again, but I don't let those fantasies get too carried away. For one thing, anything could happen. He might be angry - he could be furious, still, and some part of me hopes he would be. He might not even recognise me, or he could just be distantly surprised and tell me he was "just on his way out but he has a few seconds if I really want to talk". He might not be there - he could have moved, or he could be dead. Maybe he'd have a boy there. Or a girl. He could be married. He could have a child, who knows. He could just ignore me all together and wait until I left his life again.
Anything could happen, which might be why I can always find new ways for the fantasy to torture me. I'm pretty good at torturing myself. For one, I made the decision to leave him in the first place.
It was shame. It was selfishness. It was embarrassment, and arrogance. I thought I could move on. I was going to be famous, and he was just a silly younger boy who'd had the luck of becoming my boy toy. That's what I told myself at the beginning, at least. Now I know I was the lucky one, to have met him, and known him, and been loved by him. So of course, being me, I'd thrown it all away.
This is the vodka talking. This is the vodka running through my veins, through my brain, talking.
This is belated, endless, torturing heartbreak. This is my life.
Kai. Blonde hair; long, and dark at the roots - all red-cheeked, and grey-eyed. I remember his lips: hard, strong, but so soft you could lose yourself in them. I so want to lose myself in them still. But that was five years ago, and age hardens all things. I bet he doesn't even remember me.
I've been home 37 times since I first left. 37 times and I've not seen him once. I wish I could remember the shape of his face - the angle of his eye brows, or the length of his nose. I only remember vague things. I could look at photos, but I can't bring myself to do that any more than I can bring myself to visit him.
I'm alone tonight, again. I'm always alone these days. Eventually, even mindless, endless, sex gets boring. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to see him again, but I don't let those fantasies get too carried away. For one thing, anything could happen. He might be angry - he could be furious, still, and some part of me hopes he would be. He might not even recognise me, or he could just be distantly surprised and tell me he was "just on his way out but he has a few seconds if I really want to talk". He might not be there - he could have moved, or he could be dead. Maybe he'd have a boy there. Or a girl. He could be married. He could have a child, who knows. He could just ignore me all together and wait until I left his life again.
Anything could happen, which might be why I can always find new ways for the fantasy to torture me. I'm pretty good at torturing myself. For one, I made the decision to leave him in the first place.
It was shame. It was selfishness. It was embarrassment, and arrogance. I thought I could move on. I was going to be famous, and he was just a silly younger boy who'd had the luck of becoming my boy toy. That's what I told myself at the beginning, at least. Now I know I was the lucky one, to have met him, and known him, and been loved by him. So of course, being me, I'd thrown it all away.
This is the vodka talking. This is the vodka running through my veins, through my brain, talking.
This is belated, endless, torturing heartbreak. This is my life.
♠ ♠ ♠
I'm going to try finish this tonight