Made
Oh, I Wish I Had Someone
Laila stayed away for about two days, waiting for the coast to clear. He apologized for Nick, for having them over without asking her, without warning her. She had merely shrugged it of, saying that it was his house.
She went to work that night, dressed in an impossibly well-fitting corset and a short skirt. "It's like a uniform," she said when she caught him looking. He had scoffed, but couldn't help thinking about a bar full of women in similar outfits. He made a mental note to ask exactly where she worked.
He spent the rest of the night watching crap television and a few of Laila's DVDs. They were all monster or alien films with mostly the same plot of survival. He enjoyed them anyway.
It was 8 AM when Laila finally got back in. She tried to be quiet, gently pushing the door closed, and creeping around the hardwood floors, but he still woke up, on the couch from the night before.
"How was work?" he asked.
Laila shrugged, pulling out £50 notes from a pocket he couldn't see. At least, he hoped it was a pocket. "I made like £9,000," she said. "So I guess it was good."
He could feel his eyes widen, though wasn't aware of making a face. "That's a great fucking job."
Laila shrugged again. "I'm gonna shower. I feel gross."
He was resting on the couch, sprawled out on the faux-leather, his head resting against the arm of it, watching t.v., when she came back in. She was wearing next to nothing, just some short pajama shorts and a thin tank-top, and plopped down beneath him on the floor. He grunted a hello, running his fingers through her short hair.
"Am I yours yet?" she asked, looking up at him.
"What?" he responded, tearing his eyes away from the drivel on the television.
"Am I yours yet?" she repeated.
He just looked at her, confused.
She grabbed his hand, running over the various lines and digits. It felt nice, being touched just to be touched.
"You know," she said, looking down at his hand. "You own me, but you haven't claimed me. Nick never did." He could just see the hint of a blush on her downcast face. "So."
He wanted to kiss her. It would have been reckless and irresponsible, kissing the young woman beneath him, but he wanted to. He wanted to taste her, to reassure her, to claim her. She looked so small and frail, and he knew it was a ruse, but couldn't help thinking it was partially true as well. Technically, he was all she had left. That and her job.
"Yeah," he said. He slowly moved his hand out of her grasp, moving it up to her head as she frowned. He leaned down, almost rolling off the couch, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. It was less fulfilling than what he wanted to do, but better. Less confusing. She smiled, and he ran his fingers through her hair again. It was soft and so curly, giving him a great grip. He almost grimaced, thinking about what a grip on her hair would signify, but chased the thought away. He moved her head over, so she was looking at him, sprawled over the couch and partially on the floor. "Yeah," he repeated. "You're mine."
She went to work that night, dressed in an impossibly well-fitting corset and a short skirt. "It's like a uniform," she said when she caught him looking. He had scoffed, but couldn't help thinking about a bar full of women in similar outfits. He made a mental note to ask exactly where she worked.
He spent the rest of the night watching crap television and a few of Laila's DVDs. They were all monster or alien films with mostly the same plot of survival. He enjoyed them anyway.
It was 8 AM when Laila finally got back in. She tried to be quiet, gently pushing the door closed, and creeping around the hardwood floors, but he still woke up, on the couch from the night before.
"How was work?" he asked.
Laila shrugged, pulling out £50 notes from a pocket he couldn't see. At least, he hoped it was a pocket. "I made like £9,000," she said. "So I guess it was good."
He could feel his eyes widen, though wasn't aware of making a face. "That's a great fucking job."
Laila shrugged again. "I'm gonna shower. I feel gross."
He was resting on the couch, sprawled out on the faux-leather, his head resting against the arm of it, watching t.v., when she came back in. She was wearing next to nothing, just some short pajama shorts and a thin tank-top, and plopped down beneath him on the floor. He grunted a hello, running his fingers through her short hair.
"Am I yours yet?" she asked, looking up at him.
"What?" he responded, tearing his eyes away from the drivel on the television.
"Am I yours yet?" she repeated.
He just looked at her, confused.
She grabbed his hand, running over the various lines and digits. It felt nice, being touched just to be touched.
"You know," she said, looking down at his hand. "You own me, but you haven't claimed me. Nick never did." He could just see the hint of a blush on her downcast face. "So."
He wanted to kiss her. It would have been reckless and irresponsible, kissing the young woman beneath him, but he wanted to. He wanted to taste her, to reassure her, to claim her. She looked so small and frail, and he knew it was a ruse, but couldn't help thinking it was partially true as well. Technically, he was all she had left. That and her job.
"Yeah," he said. He slowly moved his hand out of her grasp, moving it up to her head as she frowned. He leaned down, almost rolling off the couch, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. It was less fulfilling than what he wanted to do, but better. Less confusing. She smiled, and he ran his fingers through her hair again. It was soft and so curly, giving him a great grip. He almost grimaced, thinking about what a grip on her hair would signify, but chased the thought away. He moved her head over, so she was looking at him, sprawled over the couch and partially on the floor. "Yeah," he repeated. "You're mine."