Griffin S
2009-05-17 17:46:42 UTC
Here it is, enjoy:
A man’s eyes open, finally, though he has not slept for hours. She looks haggard in the waxing light. The night’s events reduced to phantasmagoria, he does not know how he arrived here. They lie close, intertwined, more from necessity than affection. Their embrace lacks the languor of lovers’ but retains the vulnerability. He remains still, naked.
Initially proud, his ego validated, a scintilla of lust lingers. He is disgusted by his emotions; his dysthymia oscillates between melancholy and despair.
Their love had been drunken: sloppy and ataxic, passionate then a chore, his climax relief rather than release. The stranger stirs. He hopes she does not wake. His empathy and conscience, no longer absent, will not permit him to levant, although he wants nothing more.
What motivated their coupling, he speculates. He saw her as no more than suitable, he knows, and he wonders whether she sees him the same. He knows not how he would feel if she did.
He cautiously disentangles himself and rises. He collects his slackly gathered clothes from beside the narrow bed. He sits next to her as he dresses so that his movements will disturb her slumber. She awakes and looks to him, inquisitive and slightly plaintive. He kisses her apologetically and departs.