Flicker From View

Nowadays, all they ever seemed to do was fight. They argued over who’d forgotten to turn off the light on the porch. She’d swear it’d been him. He was the one that always got home late from the recording studio, but then again, it might’ve been her. She loved to go out on long walks at night, claiming that the cool air helped her think. Neither would admit to being guilty when it was their fault. Instead, they’d mentioned that one time when the other had left the light on and been caught. They’d fixate on it, bringing it up over and over again, determined to force the fault onto the other. When in reality it was them that was lying, but that didn’t matter. It made no difference whether or not they were actually at fault. What mattered was winning the argument. What mattered was claiming a victory in their never ending battles.

Their arguments were daily, and for the most part, revolved around trivial things that a couple that had been together as long as they had shouldn’t have been fighting over. But regardless of that, they fought. They’d raise their voices at each other over who’d left the milk out; throw their hands in the air out of frustration whenever the other forgot something they’d explicitly asked for from the grocery store. He’d be annoyed when she chewed gum with her mouth open. She’d be disgusted whenever she saw him playing video games in his underwear. He was nearly thirty years old. He should’ve been doing something productive, not acting like a teenager.

Whenever she told him off for playing video games, he’d snap and tell her to stop her incessant nagging. He couldn’t deal with her being so constantly on his case. If he wanted to fucking play video games, he was going to fucking play video games. He was a grown man that could make his own decisions, and in his anger, he would tell her to go over to her sister’s house for a few hours so he could have some damn peace. And it was then, always then, that he would cringe inwardly, cursing himself for having snapped, because whenever he demanded that she give him space, she would start yelling at the top of her lungs, accusing him of not loving her anymore. In her mind, he snapped at her because he was cheating on her. She’d go off on passionate rants, swearing that she’d smelled perfume on him, that she’d seen lipstick stains on his shirts whenever she did laundry, and that women called their house during the day, never asking for him, but always letting her hear their breath, just so she’d know that someone else was receiving his affections. She’d work herself up into a wild frenzy, screaming that she didn’t know why she was still engaged to him, that she was wasting her time by being with someone that was fucking every woman that crossed his path.

That, of course, wasn’t true. He was faithful, painfully so, having not slept with another woman in the nine years that he’d been with her, which was no easy feat in his line of work. He was the lead singer of a rock band; women threw themselves at him at concerts, begging him to have his way with them, enticing him with promises of threesomes and the best blowjob ever. He’d stare at those women with lust filled eyes, thinking that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to just do it once, that after that night, he’d be faithful again, but he’d never act out on those thoughts, because there was a woman waiting for him back home, a woman that loved him for who he was, instead of just the persona he took on for his work.

And he loved her. At least, he had loved her. He wasn’t so sure if he could say that at the present, and mean it. He’d loved her passionately. There was no denying that. He’d cast aside other women, more attractive women with much larger breasts, just so he could be with her, so that he could love her the way she deserved. He’d gladly made the sacrifice. But ever since the passing of his best friend, his relationship with her – the one that had grown so strong that they’d gotten engaged – had began to unravel.

To cope with his friend’s death, he played video games. Whenever he found himself missing Jimmy too much, he’s just sit on the couch and start killing the villains on screen. It was strangely therapeutic for him, and he’d explained that to her. He’d explicitly told her that playing those games that he’d once played with Jimmy, offered him some sort of closure. And at first, she’d said it was alright. That if that helped, he should play, but after a week, it began to annoy her. He was spending way too much time on those damn game consoles. But he wasn’t, not really. He played it for an hour – hour and a half. Not longer, though. It was a momentary escape, nothing more, but she didn’t think it was right for a man his age. And more than that, she hated the fact that he would lose himself in the games instead of with her. Before, he only played on the weekends, but now it had spiraled into a daily thing that she couldn’t tolerate.

At first, he was good about holding his tongue. He didn’t want to say something he’d regret, because she was the woman whom he loved and meant to marry. He reminded himself of that whenever he felt his restraint begin to loosen, but as time wore on it became increasingly difficult to not tell her to fuck off. There were just way too many instances in which she’d call him out, and he eventually snapped. He told her to just drop it, to let it go, but she didn’t. She was determined to make him stop playing video games, and he was determined to stay away from her. So thinking that he was doing them both a service, he decided to spend more time in the studio. That way they wouldn’t have the chance to fight.

His plan didn’t work, though. His being gone for most of the day, enraged her. She refused to believe that he was in the recording studio. Even when she called his friends to find out if they were at the studio and they told her that they were, she refused to believe it. There was someone else, someone that indulged him and she was determined to find out who it was. She started a witch hunt of sorts, enlisting her sister to help her find out who, her fiancée was running off to see. But her sister soon realized that something was off about her twin, she grew concerned, thinking that maybe this was the way that she was coping with the death. She told her that Matt wasn’t cheating, that she needed to rest. But that wasn’t what she wanted to hear. So she told her sister to fuck off, that she didn’t need her, she’d manage on her own. And so she began to imagine that she smelled perfume on him, she’d see remnants of lipstick on his collar.

He was cheating. He was cheating. He was cheating! She was certain of it. No one would convince her otherwise and everyday, when he walked in through that door, she’d start asking him about where he’d gone, who he’d seen. The first few times he ignored her, but then they started arguing, they threw heated words at one another, not caring about how the other would feel or what might come of it. They were acting like overdramatic teenagers. Everyday brought a variety of reasons to argue, but at one point or another, she would always accuse him of cheating. That’s was what their arguments lead up to. The milk was just a pretext, as were the video games. The imaginary cheating was why she’d truly been getting on his case for the last few weeks.

“You think I don’t know anything, but I fucking know everything, Matt! Everything!” she yelled, her face flushed with color.

“You don’t know a damn thing!” he countered, the veins on the side of his neck beginning to visibly throb. “You make up shit just so that we can fight! That’s what you do, Val!”

Her eyes flashed with rage. “Fuck you! I'm not making anything up. You’re cheating on me. You’re –”

“Can you just stop? Can you stop being delusional for one fucking minute?”

“I'm not delusional.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“I know what perfume smells like, and you smell like cheap ass perfume whenever you get home. And don’t even try to deny the lipstick! I wash our clothes! I see it just taunting me, reminding me that you’re fucking anything that moves.”

“That’s it.” Matt grabbed his jacket off the couch.

“Where you going?” asked Val, following closely behind him.

He didn’t reply.

“Where the hell are you going?” she shouted, more forcefully than before.

Again, she was ignored.

“MATT!” she grabbed his arm, forcing him to stop his steps. “Where are you going?”

“To cheat on you!” he snapped, not caring about her feelings. “You’re always bitching about how I'm cheating on you, even though I'm not. So I'm going to give you a reason to bitch!”

“P-please don’t.”

But she was too late. Her words no longer had any effect on him. He’d closed himself off to her. If she was going to spend hours complaining about how he was cheating on her, then he was going to do it. That way he could at least know that he’d earned her incessant nagging. It was a stupid thing to do. He’d regret in the morning or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe this was what he needed. Maybe this was what they needed. They hadn’t been intimate in almost a month. Val refused to sleep with someone that was cheating on her, stating that she might get some disease from him. Matt was hurt by her accusations, by the fact that she was so cold towards him. She’d driven him away and now he was getting into his car, ready to find warmth in someone else.

Had someone told him a few months ago that his relationship would change as much as it had, he would’ve told them to stop drinking so much, that they were delusional, but it had undergone such a drastic transformation that he no longer saw the woman he’d fallen for, in Val. The looks she shot him weren’t the ones that he’d grown used to over the past decade. Her tone was no longer warm and loving. She was a stranger. His heart constricted violently at the thought. How did things get so bad between them? How had their relationship unraveled so quickly? It didn’t make sense to him. That wasn’t how things were supposed to happen. It wasn’t how he’d planned things.

He needed to stop thinking about it. Tonight was about losing himself, about getting a woman that would make him forget for a little while. It’d be easy for him to find a willing partner. All he had to do was flash them his famous grin, show his dimples, and he’d have her.

Matt drove up the Pacific Coast Highway, passing Redondo Beach and then Hermosa Beach. He paid no attention to the surroundings as he entered the Manhattan Beach area, not truly noticing that the highway became Sepulveda Boulevard, and only noticing that he drove through the Los Angeles airport, when he passed under it via the Sepulveda Boulevard Tunnel. He began to grow tired of driving, having been on the road for almost an hour, but he didn’t want to drink and fuck in his area. He didn’t want his friends to see him in that state. So he drove on, determined to find a place where he’d blend in as much as he could, where he could do his bidding without fearing the disapproving gaze of those closest to him.

When the highway turned into Lincoln Boulevard, Matt grew restless and decided to find some place to drink. It was early. He’d left the studio earlier than usual, because he wanted to take Val out on a date, hoping that maybe doting on her would keep her from complaining, but that hadn’t worked out. And now it was barely six at night, and the clubs wouldn’t come to life for several hours. He had plenty of time to kill. He’d have himself some dinner, a few drinks to pass the time and numb his heart. He left his car in a parking structure, taking the stub the machine gave him and then went onto the main street. He looked up at the signs. Venice. It’d been years since he’d stepped foot in there, having been an Orange County kid, the beaches of Los Angeles had very little allure, but on that evening they were magical, a breath of fresh air.

He walked along in silence, hands buried deep in his pockets as the cool March breeze danced along his cheeks. He walked until he hit the boardwalk, and then made his way over to The Sidewalk Café. The food there was nothing spectacular. It was decent enough to satiate his hunger, but he didn’t want to be crowded on the boardwalk. So he abandoned the café and went off in search of a dive bar. He preferred the informality of them to the atmospheres of larger, more done up bars. In a dive bar, he could sit and drink without having to make conversation or to pretend to be interested in someone else’s troubles.

The dive bar that he stumbled across was much cleaner than he’d expected. It was smoky, the cigarettes made sure of that, but the floors were clean, the tables were spotless and if it hadn’t been for the smoke, he would’ve thought it a decent set up. He walked towards the front, hands still in his pocket, and took a seat at the bar. Behind the counter, the middle aged man with a protruding belly and receding hairline, made his way over to Matt. There was no smile of welcome, no friendly air to him. He had a hard look to him. Matt wondered if his face had ever worn a smile.

“What can I get ya?” asked the bartender in a raspy voice.

“A Sierra Nevada Pale Ale,” replied Matt.

“Right then, that’ll be –”

“Let me open a tab.” Matt grabbed a credit card from his wallet. “There’s no point in me paying every single time when I’m going to be at this for awhile.”

“You better be able to handle your drinks, because this might not be one of those fancy fucking bars on the boardwalk, but I’ll kick people the fuck out if they start making a scene.”

“Why don’t you just get my fucking beer?” Matt snapped. “And let me worry about myself.”

Instead of being irritated by the manner in which Matt had spoken to him, the bartender was relieved. The way Matt spoke and carried himself made it clear that he’d been offended at the supposition that he wasn’t able to handle his alcohol. And if he’d been offended, it was because he wasn’t one of those idiots that made asses of themselves after a handful of drinks. Those were the kind of customers that the bar didn’t want.

Now that the bartender knew that Matt could be trusted to drink, he placed the Sierra Nevada in front of Matt, and retreated to the corner, where he was whispering with a patron who looked to be in his late thirties. Matt sat there in silence. He just stared at the bottle, took a drink, stared at it again. Soon enough he’d be in some club, scoping out women, but for now he was drinking.

The crowd in the bar remained the same for the greater part of an hour. The ten men, scattered in booths and on barstools, drank. The ones that came in together talked in low voices, as if they were afraid of being overheard, and the ones that came alone brooded over their drink of choice. The men grew more intoxicated with each drink, but not once was a voice raised. Matt wondered if talking aloud was forbidden. If he’d get kicked out if he tried to talk to someone, but he knew that was a stupid thing to think. Talking was allowed. It was always allowed at bars. And the only reason that no one was talking to him was because they didn’t fucking feel like it. They were the sort of men, whom kept to themselves, only socializing with those they were already friends with, and some of them didn’t even socialize, they just drank to numb their sorrows.

It was depressing really, the state of them and the atmosphere they created, but then, quite out of nowhere, life was breathed into the bar in the form of a woman. She walked in with a large bad slung across her shoulder, a change of clothes and laptop had been carelessly tossed inside earlier that morning. Her hair was a mess of dark curls that had been pulled up into a messy bun. Her brow was furrowed. Her lips pressed together into a thin line. She didn’t look any better than Matt did when he walked in, but regardless of her woeful look, the bartender turned to look at her and mustered a semblance of a smile. He didn’t show his teeth, it was just lips, and the smile seemed foreign on his face. But regardless of that, he gifted a smile to the young woman that had been frequenting his bar far longer than she had been legally able to.

“Back so soon?” he asked her.

“New York lost its charm.”

The man nodded in understanding, but dared not comment. “The usual?” he inquired, knowingly.

“The usual,” she said, making her way to the bar. “On second thought, give me a bottle of it. I need more than a few fucking drinks and I don’t want to be bothering you.” She took a seat, a few spots down from Matt. “Plus I think it’s cheaper to buy the bottle than the drinks separately. You’re a cheat.”

The man let out a short chuckle. “Few minutes in and you’ve called me a cheat. What’s next?”

“Not sure, but I’ll tell you after a few drinks.”

“Here you go, Augusta.” He placed a bottle of Michael Collins Single Malt Irish Whiskey and a glass in front of her. “That’ll be $67.”

It was an inflated price. She could’ve gotten the same bottle at a specialty store for $38, but they were at a bar, and by bar standards, the price was reasonable. So she pulled her bag onto her lap and began rummaging through it, letting out a relieved sigh when she found her wallet in the mess. The wallet was quickly pulled out and when she opened it up, her American Airlines plane ticket fell onto the bar. The bartender glanced at it. Her flight had left at 1:30 pm, east coast time.

“Never saw the point of New York,” he commented, trying to make light of the situation.

“You lived there?” she asked, pulling out her credit card.

“Not sure I can say I lived there, but I lingered around for a few weeks. Hated it, fucking hated it. There’s no place like Venice.”

“I’ll drink to that.” She opened up her bottle, and poured herself a generous drink. “Share a drink, Dennis?” she asked him.

He shook his head. “Afraid I can’t. I'm taking medicine for my blood pressure.”

“It’s high again?”

He nodded.

“Well make sure to stay off the coffee, drink decaf, that’s one of the things, the doctor told my dad when his was high. It was hard for him since he was used to his coffee, but he managed.”

“I’ll give up drinking, but not the coffee.” Dennis stated.

She smiled softly. “Think I’d do the same.”

“But since you can drink, pour yourself another in my name.”

“Of course,” she stared at the whiskey, taking in its color, and then she glanced to her left, noticing the young man that was nursing his third beer. “Hey, want a drink?”

He looked over at her, brow slightly furrowed as the corners of his lips turned downwards, inadvertently allowing his dimples to be seen.

“I'm not asking you to marry me, dimples. I'm asking if you want to have a drink at someone else’s expense.” She said, wearing an amused expression on her face.

“What kind of drink?” he asked, his face returning to its normal expression as he took in her appearance.

She had an innocent face, one that didn’t belong in a smoke filled bar. Her skin was fair, her eyes a dark shade of brown, and her lips a soft shade of rose. She wasn’t sexy or hot, those words didn’t come to mind when he saw her, but she was attractive, even in her present state.

“Irish Whiskey,” she replied, putting on her best Irish accent, the one modeled after her mother’s.

“That’s a good accent.”

“Well, I’ve had practice at it.”

“Lived in Ireland?” he asked.

“No, can’t say I have. But my mom’s Irish.”

“My family’s Irish.” He said. “Well, not recently Irish, more like Irish descent.”

“Still counts as Irish to me. And since you’re an Irishman, it’d be rude to not have a drink with this cailín.”

“Cailín?” he cocked his brow.

She chuckled. “You sir, are very out of touch with your roots. It’s alright though, I forgive you. That’s what a cailín would do. Oh, that’s right, haven’t told you what it means, it means girl.”

“Why don’t they just say girl?” he asked, curiously.

“Because holding onto the Irish Gaelic is fun.”

“I take it you’re fluent.”

“Me? Hah. No, I wish. I know a few words, the one’s my mom’s taught me but growing up we were so focused on perfecting Spanish for the Mexican relatives that mastering that language didn’t seem as urgent.”

“So you’re Mexican to? I’ve never fucking heard of an Irish Mexican.”

“Then you’ve never fucking drank with them, so what do ya say?”

“Yeah, I’ll have a drink.”

“He’ll have a drink!” she exclaimed to Dennis. “Can I have another glass, Dennis?”

Dennis nodded. “Here you are.”

“Have you ever tried this brand?” she asked him.

“No, I haven’t really had much Irish Whiskey.”

“Ah, you’re missing out. If there’s one thing the Irish know, it’s their whiskey,” she handed him the glass. “To Venice,” she said lifting her glass, moving it closer to his.

He clinked his glass against hers. “To Venice,” he said.

The glass was then lifted to her lips and downed in its entirety. She’d been drinking a lot lately, building up a tolerance, so relieving the glass of the entirety of its content, wasn’t going to leave her stumbling over herself. It’d take far more than just one quickly chugged drink, to cloud her judgment. Not that it needed clouding, she was impulsive by nature, prone to doing whatever popped into her mind, and never really thinking about what the repercussions of her actions would be. That was her greatest flaw. She didn’t think things through. She never had to. She was raised in a house where everyone, her parents and sister, sorted out her issues. She’d always just sit back, watch as they handled things, and get scolded for being so childish. They’d tell her that she had to act her age, sort the complicated things on her own, but whenever she tried to, they’d intervene. She’d make a mess of it, they’d say. It was better for them to just do it, which was why, at the tender age of thirty-one; she was still as careless as she had been at sixteen.

“You should slow down,” he warned. “That’s gonna hit back pretty fast. You won’t see it coming.”

“I don’t care,” she replied, filling her glass again. “I want a night to just really not give a fuck.”

It was then that he noticed the hurt in her eyes, the look of misery that so strongly mirrored his own.

“I'm in the same position as you,” he said, reverting, his gaze to the glass in his hands. “Just tonight I don’t want to care either.”

She flashed him a wide smile. “Then finish your drink, and have another.”

It was at that moment that he decided that she’d be his night’s companion. He didn’t need to go to some crowded club to find a woman to fuck. She was attractive, clearly looking for an escape from reality, at least for the night. When morning came, there wouldn’t be feelings involved, they’d each go their separate ways and that would be that. Content with the way things had turned out; he yet again lifted the glass to his lips and downed what remained of the whiskey. Another glass was quickly poured, and throughout the course of the evening, they finished the bottle and were halfway done with another one, before he started thinking about how he was going to ask her to go off with him. Should he wait a little while longer? Invite her to a late dinner or be direct with her?

In the end, she was the one that made the move. As she laughed at a joke he’d just said, she slipped her hand over to rest on his knee. His breathing grew faster, eyes darkened with lust, and she took both as a good sign, so slowly, her hand trailed upwards, trailing along his thighs, until it was so close to his groin that she could feel it hardening against the back of her hand.

“Want to get out of here?” she whispered, her thumb rubbing circles on his inner thigh.

“Yes,” he replied in a strained voice. “Did you come in a car?”

She shook her head. “We don’t need a car though. My place isn’t too far off.”

“Okay.” He cleared his throat and stood up, trying to keep from growing harder.

She grabbed her wallet from her messenger bag and took out a ten, one parting tip for Dennis who never judged and was always there with a comforting drink. As Matt stood up from his seat, Dennis shot him a warning look, one that made it perfectly clear that if the young woman were to go missing, he’d have no problem with giving the police a description of him.

Her house wasn’t far from the bar, just a couple of miles away, but in their drunken state, the 2.1 miles felt like an absurd length. And so, when they passed a hotel, Matt tugged on her hand, saying that they should just get a room there. Her mind, clouded with lust, gladly agreed to the hotel, and in a few minutes time, they were booking a room, and then, running up the flights of stairs, because the elevator would take far too long for their liking. They messed around all the while, stopping every so often to make out, which caused their fellow hotel patrons to avert their gaze and simply deem them another drunken Venice couple.

When they reached their room door, she had trouble opening it because Matt’s lips were trailing across the back of her neck and his hands were running along her shapely hips. It took a few tries, but eventually, the door was opened and they stumbled inside. She closed the door behind them and placed the bolt so that no one would disturb them, she then turned to face Matt. Her lips twisted into a grin and she discarded her messenger bag, as well as the jacket that she’d been wearing all day. She walked towards him, taking slow deliberate steps, and when he was mere inches away from her, she pushed him onto the king sized bed, and straddled him.

A low groan left his lips when she grinded into him. This woman was driving him insane, and in that moment, he completely forgot that he was cheating on Val. In that moment he was just a man that had met a woman without fears, a woman who knew what she wanted and made damn sure that she got it. His lips attacked her neck, claiming the soft pale flesh for his own as his hands slipped under her camisole. Her breathing hitched, and she involuntarily arched her back as his lips abandoned her neck and made their way down to her chest. His hands were rough, calloused from what she only imagined could be weightlifting, and his hands soon grew annoyed with the camisole and she lifted her arms so he could remove it.

Once her shirt was removed, she opened his jacket, helping him shimmy out of it, and his shirt was soon discarded. Her eyes widened in delight when she the tattoos that adorned his body. Her fingers traced the tattoo across his collarbone, lingering, and causing him to shudder.

“You’re just a work of art,” she mumbled.

“Thanks, you are too,” he kissed her hard on the lips, his big hands sliding up her thighs, until they reached her ass.

He cupped it and then, in one fluid movement, switched them so that she lay beneath him. He hovered above her, his gaze so piercing that she felt her panties grow saturated from the arousal. Unable to control herself, she took his hair into her hands and pulled him down so their lips met in a fiery crash. His lips encased hers, hungrily moving against them as he reached around her back and unclasped her bra. His hands went up to her shoulders, pushing the straps down until they slid from her arms and her breasts were on display. He cupped her breast, causing her to moan into the kiss.

The lust boiled over and for a moment, Matt thought he was going to explode. She was soft, her flesh warm and inviting, everything about her drove her wild and the fact that she was so responsive to his every touch, made him want to just bury himself deep within her. His lips went to her nipples, the hardened pink buds that anxiously awaited his attention. He lost himself with them, swirling his tongue over one as he teased the other, and then when he’d satiated his hunger for them, he buried his face in the valley between her breasts and kissed down, causing her to squirm beneath him and let out a soft moan in the form of his name. He kissed down her chest, down her stomach, until her jeans kept him from touching anymore flesh. His hands began to undo her jeans, his eyes locked on hers all the while, and when she’d slipped out of them, and her flats had been discarded, she sat up, her hands going to his belt.

The belt was quickly removed, and his jeans soon suffered the same fate as hers, they were carelessly thrown across the room, no longer of any use to them. His boxers did nothing to conceal his erection. The bulge entreated her attention, her affection. Her hands went to the sides of his boxers, tugging them down until they were around his ankles. Her hands gently took his cock into its possession. It throbbed in her warm, soft hands.

“Fuck,” he hissed when she began to pump it.

“Do you have a condom?” she asked him.

“I, uh . . .no, I don’t.” He cursed at himself. He’d gotten used to being with Val, with not having to worry about condoms that he hadn’t bothered to buy any.

“Think I have one.” She abandoned her place on the couch and in her panties, went in search for a condom that she thought was in her purse.

Sure enough, there were a few condoms in her toiletries bag.

“Think this’ll fit.” She ripped open the bag and slowly slipped on the condom, unraveling it slowly so that it covered every inch, until finally engulfing him in his entirety. “Just tonight,” she whispered to herself.

“Just tonight,” he repeated, and then, no more was said.

With one hand he parted her legs, positing himself between her thighs. There was no need for him to kiss her again, no need to try to prolong the moment. Neither of them was expecting their encounter to be anything romantic. They were going to fuck. They were going to lose themselves in each other. That was it. There was no need for him to go down on her or for her to suck him off. The only thing he needed to do was to take off her panties so they could get things started. And that was exactly what he did, he pulled off the simple boy cut underwear and tossed it over his shoulder.

Now that she was fully exposed in front of him, he smiled down at her. The sort of smile that made her, feel faint and grateful that she was on a bed, because if she’d been standing, her knees would’ve surely given out. Those dimples of his were truly something else. They brought an innocence to him that seemed utterly out of place. He had such a striking figure; his height, his broad shoulders, that penetrating gaze, but yet there were those endearing dimples. And she was so utterly captivated by them that she couldn’t help but reach out to touch them. It was then that their eyes locked. It was then that she saw that behind the lust and desire, there was sorrow. This man, kneeling between her thighs was mirroring back her pain. How could she have missed it? She was a writer. She prided herself on being able to study others. That was how she was able to create so many characters, but somehow, she’d managed to overlook this man’s emotions. She’d been so obsessed with her own suffering that she failed to notice his.

“You change your mind?” asked Matt, unsure as to how to interpret her prolonged silence. “Because if you have it’s alright,” he assured. “I’ll just go and –”

“Just fuck me already.” She told him. “We’ve only got tonight.”