One
02/14/03
The boy stood under the tall willow tree, dead leaves falling from the limp branches, onto his just-woke-up hair style. He thrust his large, talented hands into his too-tight pants and grimaced at the harsh yellow light beaming out of the second floor window in the house diagonal to his position. He had no idea how to approach the situation, or house as it were. He could always throw stones at the window pane, but that would be way to clich. The boy shivered involuntarily as the harsh Chicago wind ruffled his own designed tee. Just as he turned to walk away, a voice he hated, a voice he so desperately wanted to hear, spoke.
"What are you doing here?" She looked the same. Same stupid hair, same stupid style. She tapped her red pumps and scratched absentmindedly at her black skinny jeans. Her face showed so much impatience, he almost laughed; that was the same too.
He merely shrugged, averting his large eyes from her familiar face, her familiar piercing, her familiar persona. He couldn't get over the fact that she hadn't changed. He had changed, so much. Or so he thought.
"I asked you a question," she snapper, her voice harsh. "You haven't been here in two years. And then, on this day, you show up in front of my house!"
"Well, it's not your house, actually. It's your neighbours," he said, not able to keep himself from contradicting her. He pointed to the house directly in front of him. "See?"
"Fuck, Pete." She huffed and turned away. He watched her walk away, for the hundredth time. And for the first time, in however many years he had known her, he called to her back.
"You know what I'm doing here." He called, in his sexy, amazing voice.
She turned around, her red shirt reflecting the sunset.
"You came back so you could see your favourite pick-up truck? Right? The one next-door?" Her sarcasm cut him to the bone, but instead of telling her what he was really doing there, he agreed with her.
"Exactly," he sneered, his perfect white teeth gleaming. "Why would I come back just to see you?"
And in turn, his remark hurt her, wounded her again. But he didn't care, actually. Sure, he still loved her to death, but he wished on countless stars that she would break. Break into a billion pieces and shatter to the floor, hitting off the pavement like thousands of pebbles, clattering away from the window.
She was at her front door by now. She turned and looked at him, her face sad. He couldn't think of something nice to say; he never could.
"Come in." She spoke the words, but over the wind he didn't hear them. He followed her retreating back into her house anyway, they had done this to many times before.
Up in her room, he had a blast of nostalgia. Looking around he remembered the bad times, and the few good. He finally focused on the bed, and there she was, sitting there with her feet up her pumps gleaming from the bedroom light, and her red shirt on the floor.
Having hate sex isn't as fun as it sounds.
He tugged on his pants, his tattooed chest not visible in the now-dark room.
"I tried to avoid walking to your house," he whispered, his hands finding his messy hair. "But it just happened...I thought I could forget my way here, I've been out with Patrick, doing thin-"
"Boys like you are overrated." She said it meanly, cruelly.
"Don't talk about Patrick like that." He snapped, his fingernails contracting to his skull. He could sense her shrug as she picked at her nails, waiting for him to leave. He got up and pulled on his shirt, muttering a string of swear words under his breath. Why had he come?
"If you want apologies from me, hold your breath. You might die and I'll be rid of you."
"Pete..." she started, he heard the bed-springs squeak.
"I still hate you." And with that, he was gone. Out the door, out the house and down the street where the lights in Chicago gleamed.
with every breath i wish your body will be broken again.
thanks for reading this.
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