Sequel: Heaven ›
All the Dirty Things
Come Back
“I should probably get going.”
He stood up from the bed, stepping back into his pants as he did so. She watched him walk around the crowded bedroom, gathering his clothes into a pile in his arms. He glanced over at her, his expression growing pained. She looked so vulnerable wrapped up in the sheets, her dark mass of hair tumbling over her shoulders. He closed his eyes against the guilt and finished getting dressed. He stopped only once to check his tie in a side mirror
She watched him shrug his suit jacket back on, his gaze looking everywhere but at her. Without a good-bye, he left the room. She scrambled up from the bed, the words come back on her lips, but they came out choked and dry. The slam of the front door echoed through her tiny apartment, and she fell to the floor.
The sobs were tiny and quiet, but they racked her small body. She reached for the comforter, and pulled it down off the bed. She clutched it in her hands, breathing in it’s scent. It smelled like him, and sex, and all of the dirty things he couldn’t do with his wife. It smelled like pain and desire and heart-crushing guilt. She buried her face in it, trying to soak what was left of him into her skin.
And she cried, whispering the same words over and over again, come back escaping her mouth in a wretched little voice. She looked up at the door, waiting, praying, hoping for him to walk back in. But he didn’t.
He stood up from the bed, stepping back into his pants as he did so. She watched him walk around the crowded bedroom, gathering his clothes into a pile in his arms. He glanced over at her, his expression growing pained. She looked so vulnerable wrapped up in the sheets, her dark mass of hair tumbling over her shoulders. He closed his eyes against the guilt and finished getting dressed. He stopped only once to check his tie in a side mirror
She watched him shrug his suit jacket back on, his gaze looking everywhere but at her. Without a good-bye, he left the room. She scrambled up from the bed, the words come back on her lips, but they came out choked and dry. The slam of the front door echoed through her tiny apartment, and she fell to the floor.
The sobs were tiny and quiet, but they racked her small body. She reached for the comforter, and pulled it down off the bed. She clutched it in her hands, breathing in it’s scent. It smelled like him, and sex, and all of the dirty things he couldn’t do with his wife. It smelled like pain and desire and heart-crushing guilt. She buried her face in it, trying to soak what was left of him into her skin.
And she cried, whispering the same words over and over again, come back escaping her mouth in a wretched little voice. She looked up at the door, waiting, praying, hoping for him to walk back in. But he didn’t.
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Undecided about his.Feedback? It'd be much appreciated.
-Beki