Characters: Dylan, Lisa.
I woke up, and when I saw the sun shining through the window, right in my eyes, I realised it was too bloody early again. Why did I keep getting up this early here? There was something about it which baffled me. Either way, I pulled my jeans on clumsily and stumbled to the window, having a quick look out before deciding what to do with these hours of my morning. I had always liked writing, as any other type of creativity defied me. Even then, I was better at writing academically. I got far too verbose and it just didn't work. But, like some people fancy drawing or taking a picture, I fancied writing, so it's what I'd do. I rummaged through my stuff for that very tatty notebook of mine, picked up my quill...then realised how ridiculous it was when I could just as easily use a biro. I fished that out instead, then sat down and wrote the first thing that came to my head.
I never used to get up this early, that was one thing I was certain of. Whether it was because she used to exhaust me or just that I used to think less than I did these days, it wasn’t common for me to be awake at this hour.
Repeating your train of thought. What a brilliant way to start off prose, Dylan. So creative.
Maybe it was the only chance I ever really got to think things through, work out what the hell was going on with my life and how it had gotten here from where it had been a year, which seems more like an aeon ago, stretching out of my concept of time. It used to be that everything within my lifetime was ‘vaguely recent’, partially because a concept of time didn’t matter too much to me. Things changed, and they changed freely, but I never really found the need to measure how long it had taken. This was different, and I knew it. This needed the attention of all my flitty thoughts, as all the intellectual, blasé analysis wouldn’t get me anywhere, I wasn’t blind to that.
Okay, there are worse ways to start off, as demonstrated here. Waffle.
The difficulty was, when I crawled out of her bed on these July mornings and quietly, albeit with the usual fluid clumsiness, tripping over one thing then the next, but still able to keep my feet somehow, make my way to sit in that chair of hers, the warm sunshine pressing into my back, its touch a lot gentler than hers had been the previous night, soft sun rays spreading across my skin, caressing it with a gentle heat, rather than the tension of her touch, holding something back from me and demanding something from me all in the same motion.
Apparently I'm good at very, very LONG sentences. Also. Fluid clumsiness? What the...
The sunlight was more reminscient of her hands against my skin afterwards, honest, surrendering everything she could in one gentle palm against my chest, one trail of her finger along my arm. I always sat there and intended to think, intended to figure this out, but in the face of such unashamed beauty, how on earth could I think? How could I sit here and figure these things out when she lay there, all peaceful, sleeping with an effortless grace? See, that, I liked. Everyone else'd think it was complete verbosity and I should SHUT THE HELL UP.
There was something about it which just numbed my brain; observing how her soft hair fell in delicate flickers across her shoulders, imagining how it would feel if those sultry black strands were weaving through my fingers again, not with the furious passion of last night, where I needed to feel every part of her against my skin, especially that hair of hers across my fingertips, but with a much more gentle appreciation. The way the sheets, somehow, found all the right curves, draped across her, just covering enough to be decent, but just revealing enough to be positively indecent in my mind. The way I could only just glimpse some cleavage, the way it seemed to beg me to reach over and reveal just an inch more of that skin, but especially the way I knew I didn’t need to, as it was all imprinted on my brain by now; how her breasts felt against my palm, where her body felt best against mine, even if it was changing so rapidly at the minute, I knew every inch of her, every little nuance, I couldn’t escape them, and nor would I want to. I began to think I had lost the plot a little there. Oh dear.
I couldn’t escape that she liked peanut butter more than I liked cigarettes and a glass of thick, red wine, that she could be dominating all day, but still wanted me to have my way with her at night, that she actually did like those china plates of hers for whatever reason, or simply the way her body felt next to mine at night; so delicate, but so assured. Who can mention peanut butter, wine, fags, china plates and sex all in the same huge run on sentence? I CAN!
This was why I stayed, this is why I came back all those months ago – not because I loved her, but because I couldn’t let her go, only she would make me feel like this was the right thing to do, that despite all the fear coursing through me at the very idea of responsibility, I could do it, for her, but also for our child. It was as I sat there, just watching her sleep, that I realised this, without even forcing myself to think about it as I planned. awww, me.
Everything seemed so much purer in the morning, in comparison to everything we had done last night, it seemed serene, the light which was spreading warmth across my back as I watched now pressing against her skin, like a memory of where my lips had been the previous night. Except with every delicate, sweeping ray of sunlight, she was painted in even more vibrancy, coming alive with the summer sun, a strange colourful early morning peace entwined in the image before me. These were the reasons I couldn’t take my eyes off her, these were the reasons I couldn’t bring myself to think in a logical sentence. All I ever wanted to do when I sat there, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest was to wake her up and tell her how beautiful she truly was in that moment, but that would shatter the moment into tiny shards of seconds, a split second of perfection lost into the vastness of time.
I was going to continue, but as I got stuck for words and began to think how ridiculous it must have looked to anyone else reading it, as there were only so many times you could make fun of your own writing, an owl started scratching at the window. I was really debating if giving my sister that for christmas was such a good idea after all. I went to get the letter, tossing my notebook on the bottom of the bed for the minute. It's not like Lisa'd wake up. She slept forever.