Sequel: Sunday ›
Status: two shot || complete
Daydream
tales made behind bedroom doors.
“Do you want me to drive you home?”
“Please.” I had another two beers after you’d broken up with Anthony. A celebration of sorts. You drank a glass of whiskey – something fancier to spruce up the situation. Only one, however. You wanted to be okay to drive.
“Come on, then. Time to go to home.”
On the drive back to my apartment, you held my hand and allowed me to rub circles into your knuckles. My hands swamped yours; yours are delicate, the tanned skin not quite reaching them, your palms are as pale as your kitchen tiles. We shared a few words, looking out of the windows into the dim evening, some people already drunk, more than often the males leaning on the females.
“Douchebags…” You muttered, “They should ditch them and have some fun.” You slammed your foot down on the accelerator as the light turned green, eliciting an almighty squeal from the vehicle. You giggled as I shouted, slowing down. I joined in after a few seconds, my breathing quickened from the scare.
The key misses the lock a few times, my vision blurry. You take the key from me and lean forward. You’re close enough that I can smell your sweet, sweet scent of mixed berries. It’s faint from your shower this morning and has collided with your deodorant that gives off an aroma of mangoes. It puzzled me at first – why choose the one that smells of fruit? – but then you told me that the name of the deodorant is “confidence” and you like that; you believe everyday should be filled with it.
Your fruity scent disappears inside the house as I am, once again, left to ponder. You call out to me, voice already faint, and I follow in a daze.
“Where are you?” I ask, rifling around in the kitchen – I want to rid myself of a potential hangover. Coffee’s never worked for me and I dislike the taste of instant, which is the only type I have in the house at the moment. I turn to the next best thing – ice.
As I drop a few cubes into the empty cup, I visualize you when you first showed me this nifty trick. Coffee never works, I had whined, stirring the dark liquid in the not quite pristine white cup. It was stained with years of being used to hold coffee and tea. Try water, you had replied, filling up a glass with water from the tap and slamming it in front of me.Drink up. I had decided it was too warm after a tentative sip – I would never believe that all my headache problems could be cured with water, it was too simple. Maybe with water and aspirin, which is what you ended up giving me after I added a few ice cubes that I happily crunched on. Remember to hydrate yourself when you drink, you added with a smile.
You stomp downstairs with heavy feet, finally having paid attention to my words and showing yourself. “Have one of my shirts,” I comment dryly, my eyes lingering on the familiar grey shirt with “teen angst” on it in large, block lettering. It swamps your petite frame and you courtesy, holding the hem of the too-big shirt down.
“Ice? Nice.” Your eyes sparkle mischievously, landing on the glass. “Perfect addition to a mixer.” I pad upstairs warily after you tear my kitchen to shreds, your eyes now fixated on the clear bottle of alcohol in one hand and lime in the other. I’m carrying the salt and what has now turned into a bowl of ice.
“Tequila shots, really?” I whine as I trudge across the landing. You've already crept into my room, and I can hear the squeaking of the bottle cap as you unscrew it. You're cross-legged on my bed and death staring me when I enter.
“Yes, tequila shots. I just broke up with my jerk of a boyfriend.” You pat the bed next to you and I oblige with an almost inaudible sigh; you don't notice. “If I'm staying the night,” you paused and looked at me, waiting for confirmation which I give in a nod, “then we may as well get trashed.”
“One problem,” I say as you start to try and set up the ingredients. I crunch on a piece of ice, hoping to be a little more sober than tipsy when we begin. “The limes aren’t cut up and we don't have shot glasses.”
You jump off of the bed and scurry downstairs, limes in hand. “That's right!” I fall back on the bed, traces of your fruit filled aroma lingering on the covers. I inhale and listen to the dull thuds of a knife hitting the chopping board.
Your footsteps are light when you re-enter the room, possibly with the plans of startling me. I keep my eyes closed, and wait for your soft touch upon my stomach and the “boo” that will follow half a beat later.
I get there before you though, and jerk upright, “boo!” You shriek before laughing, the limes now in a bowl, juice coating the sides. There’s shot glasses in the bowl too and I grimace as I retrieve one, wiping the glass and my sticky hand on my shirt. “Fill her up.” I say, holding out the glass.
Four shots each later, and we’ve decided to play a game – strip ‘n sip snap. Lose the round, and you have to have a shot and remove an item of clothing. It’s quite simple, really. I remove my shirt first, and you decide to do the same when you lose. You have a singlet on under the grey and you poke your tongue out at me. A few more rounds and I’m down to my boxers while you still have on your singlet and underwear. You took off your socks one at a time and got me with the “one article of clothing” rule.
We’re both sufficiently drunk by this stage. “I don’t want to play anymore.” You announce, throwing your remaining cards down. I’ve almost won this game, and it’s clear which clothing item you will remove – and no, it isn’t your underwear.
“If you don’t play I’ll have to remove it for ya.” My words run together and I lean forward, playing with the hem. I snap the fabric, so that it hits the side of your stomach lightly.
“You couldn’t if you dare.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“Maybe.” Your eyes, your dark chocolate eyes that glimmer in light of the dare, that flash with anger when you knock over your microphone stand on stage, that I could fall into and swim endlessly in, lock on mine. I never could resist a challenge.
My mouth captures yours, and I pull you closer to me, the cards and drink all but forgotten. I break the kiss and you gasp as I whip your top off. You make an unsatisfactory noise as your arms become tangled the arm holes, pulled above your head. I smirk and hold the shirt in one hand and undo your bra with the other. You wriggle out of your shirt, arms flailing, and glare at me. “I said singlet not bra.” With a shrug I lean in to kiss you again.
We melt into each other, and it’s only a few minutes before I’m hovering above you, your fingers tangled in my hair. We’re in the same clothing situation – boxers and underpants only. I can sense where this is heading, but I want to tell you something before it comes to that. Your hands are wandering further down, but I break the sloppy kiss, opening my eyes and fixating them on yours.
Your breathing is heavy and your eyes have darkened significantly. “What – ”
“I love you.” Now that it’s out of my system, I lean down to give you a shorter, sweeter kiss. More heartfelt than the numerous others we’ve shared. You push on my chest lightly.
“What?” You ask, incredulous.
“I love you, Jenna.”
“I love you too.” You murmur back, pulling me down. You lips move to the base of my throat.
“Really?” It’s my turn to be incredulous. You pause from sucking at the skin at my throat, and I wonder if you felt the vibrations of my vocal cords. You look up and bite your lip, eyes becoming soft.
You always were a compulsive liar. “No strings attached.” You finally say.
“Please.” I had another two beers after you’d broken up with Anthony. A celebration of sorts. You drank a glass of whiskey – something fancier to spruce up the situation. Only one, however. You wanted to be okay to drive.
“Come on, then. Time to go to home.”
On the drive back to my apartment, you held my hand and allowed me to rub circles into your knuckles. My hands swamped yours; yours are delicate, the tanned skin not quite reaching them, your palms are as pale as your kitchen tiles. We shared a few words, looking out of the windows into the dim evening, some people already drunk, more than often the males leaning on the females.
“Douchebags…” You muttered, “They should ditch them and have some fun.” You slammed your foot down on the accelerator as the light turned green, eliciting an almighty squeal from the vehicle. You giggled as I shouted, slowing down. I joined in after a few seconds, my breathing quickened from the scare.
The key misses the lock a few times, my vision blurry. You take the key from me and lean forward. You’re close enough that I can smell your sweet, sweet scent of mixed berries. It’s faint from your shower this morning and has collided with your deodorant that gives off an aroma of mangoes. It puzzled me at first – why choose the one that smells of fruit? – but then you told me that the name of the deodorant is “confidence” and you like that; you believe everyday should be filled with it.
Your fruity scent disappears inside the house as I am, once again, left to ponder. You call out to me, voice already faint, and I follow in a daze.
“Where are you?” I ask, rifling around in the kitchen – I want to rid myself of a potential hangover. Coffee’s never worked for me and I dislike the taste of instant, which is the only type I have in the house at the moment. I turn to the next best thing – ice.
As I drop a few cubes into the empty cup, I visualize you when you first showed me this nifty trick. Coffee never works, I had whined, stirring the dark liquid in the not quite pristine white cup. It was stained with years of being used to hold coffee and tea. Try water, you had replied, filling up a glass with water from the tap and slamming it in front of me.Drink up. I had decided it was too warm after a tentative sip – I would never believe that all my headache problems could be cured with water, it was too simple. Maybe with water and aspirin, which is what you ended up giving me after I added a few ice cubes that I happily crunched on. Remember to hydrate yourself when you drink, you added with a smile.
You stomp downstairs with heavy feet, finally having paid attention to my words and showing yourself. “Have one of my shirts,” I comment dryly, my eyes lingering on the familiar grey shirt with “teen angst” on it in large, block lettering. It swamps your petite frame and you courtesy, holding the hem of the too-big shirt down.
“Ice? Nice.” Your eyes sparkle mischievously, landing on the glass. “Perfect addition to a mixer.” I pad upstairs warily after you tear my kitchen to shreds, your eyes now fixated on the clear bottle of alcohol in one hand and lime in the other. I’m carrying the salt and what has now turned into a bowl of ice.
“Tequila shots, really?” I whine as I trudge across the landing. You've already crept into my room, and I can hear the squeaking of the bottle cap as you unscrew it. You're cross-legged on my bed and death staring me when I enter.
“Yes, tequila shots. I just broke up with my jerk of a boyfriend.” You pat the bed next to you and I oblige with an almost inaudible sigh; you don't notice. “If I'm staying the night,” you paused and looked at me, waiting for confirmation which I give in a nod, “then we may as well get trashed.”
“One problem,” I say as you start to try and set up the ingredients. I crunch on a piece of ice, hoping to be a little more sober than tipsy when we begin. “The limes aren’t cut up and we don't have shot glasses.”
You jump off of the bed and scurry downstairs, limes in hand. “That's right!” I fall back on the bed, traces of your fruit filled aroma lingering on the covers. I inhale and listen to the dull thuds of a knife hitting the chopping board.
Your footsteps are light when you re-enter the room, possibly with the plans of startling me. I keep my eyes closed, and wait for your soft touch upon my stomach and the “boo” that will follow half a beat later.
I get there before you though, and jerk upright, “boo!” You shriek before laughing, the limes now in a bowl, juice coating the sides. There’s shot glasses in the bowl too and I grimace as I retrieve one, wiping the glass and my sticky hand on my shirt. “Fill her up.” I say, holding out the glass.
Four shots each later, and we’ve decided to play a game – strip ‘n sip snap. Lose the round, and you have to have a shot and remove an item of clothing. It’s quite simple, really. I remove my shirt first, and you decide to do the same when you lose. You have a singlet on under the grey and you poke your tongue out at me. A few more rounds and I’m down to my boxers while you still have on your singlet and underwear. You took off your socks one at a time and got me with the “one article of clothing” rule.
We’re both sufficiently drunk by this stage. “I don’t want to play anymore.” You announce, throwing your remaining cards down. I’ve almost won this game, and it’s clear which clothing item you will remove – and no, it isn’t your underwear.
“If you don’t play I’ll have to remove it for ya.” My words run together and I lean forward, playing with the hem. I snap the fabric, so that it hits the side of your stomach lightly.
“You couldn’t if you dare.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“Maybe.” Your eyes, your dark chocolate eyes that glimmer in light of the dare, that flash with anger when you knock over your microphone stand on stage, that I could fall into and swim endlessly in, lock on mine. I never could resist a challenge.
My mouth captures yours, and I pull you closer to me, the cards and drink all but forgotten. I break the kiss and you gasp as I whip your top off. You make an unsatisfactory noise as your arms become tangled the arm holes, pulled above your head. I smirk and hold the shirt in one hand and undo your bra with the other. You wriggle out of your shirt, arms flailing, and glare at me. “I said singlet not bra.” With a shrug I lean in to kiss you again.
We melt into each other, and it’s only a few minutes before I’m hovering above you, your fingers tangled in my hair. We’re in the same clothing situation – boxers and underpants only. I can sense where this is heading, but I want to tell you something before it comes to that. Your hands are wandering further down, but I break the sloppy kiss, opening my eyes and fixating them on yours.
Your breathing is heavy and your eyes have darkened significantly. “What – ”
“I love you.” Now that it’s out of my system, I lean down to give you a shorter, sweeter kiss. More heartfelt than the numerous others we’ve shared. You push on my chest lightly.
“What?” You ask, incredulous.
“I love you, Jenna.”
“I love you too.” You murmur back, pulling me down. You lips move to the base of my throat.
“Really?” It’s my turn to be incredulous. You pause from sucking at the skin at my throat, and I wonder if you felt the vibrations of my vocal cords. You look up and bite your lip, eyes becoming soft.
You always were a compulsive liar. “No strings attached.” You finally say.
