Switching off

For Nadine, Happy Birthday, I hope you like this little offering. I know you said you wanted a story (or more likely, 'why did Lisa and Tamsin get stories and not me') and I promised you one for your Birthday. It wasn't ready for Saturday, so here it is. I hope you enjoy. (You can SO tell I've never been in a relationship)

Love Alex.

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I watched the dirty fan revolve around above my head. It is incrusted with dirt, and one of the blades had been broken off, and it did little more than re-circulate the already overheated air. The air suddenly had become like a solid mass, despite all logic that dictated that it was a short step away from becoming plasma, weighing me down, making it hard to move.

I felt, as the bed sunk beneath my weight, forming to my body as I lay there, not rally caring. The sheets felt stale, like old bread that had been left on the side for a few days, my short hair felt like straw being dragged along it, but right now I couldn't move or do anything about it. It was hot, unbearably hot, but I felt cool, lying down, looking at the fan. When, or if, I got up, I'd have to clean it, but right now I was completely content.

My fingers played with some loose strands of her hair as her head lye on my belly. She was a sleep right now, and so had I been, but right now I was half-awake, slowly realising that I was happy. I watched the smile on her face and she nested her head into me. I smiled myself at the little half grin on her face. She looks so beautiful. So fucking beautiful. Who would believe it? She isn't the beautiful type. She's too intelligent for that. She the kind of person who'd rather be though of as harsh than beautiful, but as she slept, anything that suggested her usual austerity left her face.

Who would have thought that I'd get this far? No one, and I mean no one before me has seen this sweet expression on her face. No one would dare to ask of its existence. I ask myself, why didn't I ask her out before? I'd been out with millions of other girls before, but never her. Maybe it was because she always looked so sever, so angry underneath the old jumpers and badly repaired jeans, almost as if she was asking people not to take an interest. Maybe she was hiding herself in her work, behind computer banks and reports, but one day I think I saw her. I saw her carrying about twelve files to her desk, staggering under the weight. I watched from my desk, not really caring. I knew whom she was, and so didn't go to help her. Apparently she hated men, so as a man I declined to help, in fear of angering her.

So, predictably, the files fall all over the floor and spilt like and oil slick over the blue carpet. She felt to her knees and started to gather them up madly. I sat there, ignoring the computer screen, watching her. It was as she placed the fifth file back onto the pile she looked up into my eyes. I suppose I expected to see hatred, or anger, or maybe even haughty superiority, but I was to be disappointed. It was sadness I saw in her face, pure sadness. She looked away quickly, not wanting to risk any involvement, but she had already done the damage.

She quickly sorted out her files and gathered them up into her arms before scurrying off like a mouse in a maze. It was at this point that I got off my chair and followed her. I followed her through the office, keeping ten paces behind her, mimicking every little twist and turn she made to get past the bazaar that out office was. I followed her until she had reached her destination; her desk.

I watched her throw her folders down through the semi-translucent window. She opened a folder, and sighed, placing her hands in her face. But suddenly, when she was on her own she looked frail and sad. She looked like the kind of woman who you want, if only to merely save her from herself, regardless of her suddenly apparent beauty. I knocked on her office door, and entered.

She asked me who I was, and I told her. She asked me whether I should be at work instead of bothering her. I told her no. She wanted to know what she could do to make me leave.

I though about this for a minute. Then I replied. I could meet her for a drink later.

That had been six months ago.

We lay here, breathing together, purely together, sweethearts that we are, wishing for this never to end. I sigh softly in time with her, and stroked her gently on the head. What a life it is, when you can find beauty in anger.

I felt her stir. She turned her head to face mine, and moaned softly.

"Morning Lovely." I said.

"Morning." She groaned. She smiled. I smiled. She took her head off my stomach and kissed me sweetly on the forehead. I kissed her bottom lip playfully. We embraced. We switched off from the world. There seemed to be none but ours in out passion.

THE END.