Aime
I decided to leave her after, well, after, cough, you know, that type of sex. As I withered in her, and wondered how long the perfunctory kissing on the back of the neck would have to go on for, I found a profound sense of boredom. It wasn't with the way her body lay on the sheets, or the way the sunshine shuffled uneasy through the blinds and cowered from the corners, it was just the sense that I could see my future mapped out - islands of intimacy, and shopping and drugs and her friends in a sea of grey glooply despair. I didn't know what I wanted to do - still don't - I just knew I didn't want this. I hated the way her hair fell on her face and I hated the way she put her legs over mine as we slept. Like she owned me, or wanted me to own her.

I lay there for a while, going "mmm", wondering if it was too early for the vodka in the freezer. It was either always too early, or never early enough. She rolled over and held me and I could see the sun on her perfect face and the two red rosy spots high on either of her cheeks. There was a layer of sweat on her forehead so I stroked it with my hands. I could wash them later much easier than the floral pillow cases which she had bought at Monoprix before Christmas. She sat up and lit a cigarette. I watched the smoke spiral up to the ceiling, as if it couldn't bear to be inside her, either. I was frozen. I knew she'd get up and dress herself after the cigarette. I hated the way she dressed so casually, so matter of factly in front of me. The callous intimacy. I couldn't bear to watch it. She'd just stand up and pull her bra on and then bend down and pull her pink knickers on and then put her jumper and jeans on. She was taking something for granted which I hadn't realised I'd given.

The plans I devised grew more outlandish, and for a while I was seriously, seriously contemplating faking my own death. In the end, I decided to start off more gently - whispering another girl's name in my faked sleep and then going "ooh yeah". I did this for a few nights, but she slept on regardless, doubtless cos of the cheap French red wine and the expensive Moroccan hash. Once this failed, I decided to hire an actress. I'd get a drama student or something and while *** was out, I'd get the actress round and pretend, somehow, to be in love with me when *** came back. I didn't know how much an actress cost, so to be on the safe side, I started stealing money from her. When I pissed all that up the wall, I decided to tip off the drug police that she was a drug dealer. All the while this was going on, she'd drape herself around me, or tell me she loved me, or kiss me, and every time skin touched skin, I felt the infinity between the intimacies.

One day we were sitting with friends around the big table in the flat. We'd had crusty bread and ham and cheese and an ice cold white wine and I could smell the fresh coffee percolating, and I just looked at her and said "Do you know what? I fucking hate you". She made a sound that sounded a bit like the coffee machine. A sort of hot spluttering. Well, that was the end of that. I ended up crying myself to sleep in my empty bed for a month or so afterwards.

What a cunt. Fuck it.
(sirolimus, Fri 6 Jun 2008, 16:39, 10 replies)

there was a lovely French-ness to that description
nice yarn - *click*
(bazmorningstar efil4nat3b, Fri 6 Jun 2008, 16:44, closed)

click
^
(happylittletulip helpless and delicious, Fri 6 Jun 2008, 16:53, closed)

You
are a bad cunt, lol
(conzo21, Fri 6 Jun 2008, 16:54, closed)

As I read that I pictured it all in black and white
how strange, a film noir QOTW post.
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Fri 6 Jun 2008, 16:54, closed)

hmm
dunno about the bit about shopping her to the cops......not. very. cool
(Cancer Joy was short lived, Fri 6 Jun 2008, 16:55, closed)

I read this again in a languid, French accent...
and it gained 20% more brilliance.

That makes 120% total!

*clicks hard*

(Cancer Joy... Psst - I don't think it's true!)
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Fri 6 Jun 2008, 17:22, closed)

Good to see you back
the "taking something for granted" line was quality
( I_Was_Mordred, Fri 6 Jun 2008, 17:34, closed)

Jean-Paul Sartre for the 21st century?
That is, in English, and referencing anal sex.

Nice and existential, nonetheless. Clicky click.
(Holloway_Girl To err is to be human, to be a fool is to believe, Fri 6 Jun 2008, 19:34, closed)