Your hair is especially nice today.
The dark brown is splashed with lighter highlights, spiked up with gel so that your beautiful oval face is clear. But it's getting longer and soon that style's not going to work anymore and that's okay because I love it long. I imagine burying my hands in it, I can almost feel the silken locks caress my fingers again.
The sun is too fucking bright and my eyes hurt from squinting so much.
You walk the street because cars aren't your thing; they've never been your thing. Except when it came to fucking in them.
I can still see the scratches on the backseat.
Your bag bumps against your thigh as you walk, already pressing the buttons on your new mobile phone, calling someone, probably calling him. The buttons on your bag flash brilliantly in the morning sun - the black fabric still covered with pen scrawls, messages from friends, family, him. I can see a big white blob of white-out where my message used to be.
You're nearing the end of the block, soon I'll lose sight of you. I start the car and edge out of the parking space, careful to keep a certain distance.
You're talking (to him), you bend your head back and laugh just as you reach the end of the second block. I can't hear it, the windows are up and the cars around are too loud, but I've heard it so many times I don't have to. I already know it perfectly. The sweet infectious honeyed laugh that's haunted my dreams for the past year.
You talk all the way to work. I wonder what you talk about. Music, most likely.
Do you ever mention me?
Does he?
Am I nothing but a distant memory now, even though it's only been a year?
You only end the call when you reach the brick building where you spend your daytime. I loathe how much you work. You don't even come out for lunch anymore.
You linger outside the door, reluctant to go in, and your coffee-coloured shirt is tight over your chest; taunt and tempting.
Why do you continue to work here? You've always hated it.
They don't appreciate you.
You're better than this.
But the familiar disappointment rises when you push inside, and I miss you already.
I park the car across the street. You won't be back out for hours.
I squint at the building and I wish I could see you through the windows. They've probably still got you in one of those awful cubicle things.
I wonder if your boss knows how many times we screwed our brains out on his desk.
Probably not.
I do anything to pass the time. I read the magazine stashed under the seat. I listen to the radio, humming along whenever one of your favourite songs comes on. While I'm eating a soggy sandwich from the cafe a block down Pierre calls my mobile.
When he asks what I'm doing I say I'm at work and the fax machine is being a shit again. He believes me without question. He doesn't know I don't have a job. When he says goodbye I say 'I love you' and pretend it's your voice that replies.
I fall asleep, the itchy picnic blanket from the boot pulled over my head so the sun doesn't burn my face.
It's hot, but comfortable.
I'm awaken by my alarm on my watch, beeping wildly because it's time. I fold the blanket again and put it back in the boot, by the spare tyre.
I pick stray shreds of lettuce off the seat.
When you come out you look tired, your tanned forehead crinkled by a heavy frown. I wish you would quit. I wonder if he wishes you would quit as well.
Your frown stays for the whole walk home. You must be really worried about something. I want so badly to be able to ask you if everything's okay, if you're okay, to ask what's troubling your pretty self so much. But you have a habit of calling on the police when I do. Restraining orders suck balls.
When you disappear inside the apartment building I sigh, knowing that once again it could be hours before you emerge. If you knew I was out here you'd never emerge again.
I get out, stretch my legs. You're on the fourth floor, fifth room from the right. Have you changed it again? It used to drive me crazy how many times you'd change it around. Every time I got used to how the rooms were set up you changed them again.
Does he mind as much?
I trail my fingers along the cracks and grooves on the wall, scuffing my shoe against the concrete.
---
It's dark, almost 10:00 when he shows up. I must admit he's pretty fucking hot. You've always had excellent taste, expecting nothing but the best. Sometimes I don't know how I made it into that category. Those are the times I cry myself to sleep and Pierre still doesn't know why.
I don't want him to know why. He'll leave me and I need him, he's the evidence, my proof that I'm over you.
Except sometimes I don't think I'll ever be over you.
I cry then, too.
I hug the wall, holding my breath until he's inside. While he's up there (fourth floor, fifth room from the right) I throw myself back into the car.
You're draped all over him, grinning and laughing and burying your hand in his back pocket.
I've never seen that shirt before, but I know those pants. Leather, tight, slippery and smooth to the touch. Hard to get on, easy to get off.
Oh yeah, I know those pants.
His car is bigger, sleeker, fancier, more expensive than mine. Everything of his is better than mine. I'd be proud of you for finding someone like him, if I wasn't so fucking jealous.
The club is full and crowded as always; sweaty and loud and everything you love. You live for the night and I loved living for them with you.
It's funny how times change, isn't it?
No, it's not. It's fucking horrible how times change.
I answer my own questions too much.
You don't wait - you drag him into the blinding lights and start to move, swaying and rubbing and from the balcony I can see your wicked smirk because you know you've got him wrapped around your little finger. Like me, he only watches. But unlike me, he's allowed to show how much he enjoys it.
I stay in the shadows, keeping out of everyone's way and hoping there's no one here that I know. I'm okay with hiding. As long as I still get to watch you dance.
Strangely, you don't stay for long. It's only midnight when you tug his arm and nod toward the exit. You've only had one drink but he's happy to leave. I don't have to guess why.
On the road I keep three cars behind you, and I can't see your face anymore. I know he's driving. With your driving skills it would be stupid to let you drive. No offence babe, but you and driving just don't mix.
I already know where you're going before you even turn down those roads. The hill. It's always empty at night, I don't know why. The view is amazing. You can see the whole city.
We used to lie up here for hours, stretched out over the grass, just talking about whatever crossed our minds. I asked you to marry me once.
"Fuck the laws. I'll be the bride." I said. You only laughed, thinking I was joking.
I wasn't.
It's dark up here, I don't have to worry much about you seeing me. He parks close to the edge. I park as close as I dare and the moonlight is streaming through his windscreen, illuminating you and god, you look so beautiful.
You're talking, he's replying with easy smiles. I wish I could read lips.
I just want to know, do you ever mention me?
But the conversation quickly comes to an end and you don't even hesitate. You're upon him, crushing your mouths together, your arms around his broad shoulders.
He doesn't complain at all. He kisses you back with equal ferocity, hugging and dragging you back, struggling to pull you into the backseat.
I smile faintly, knowing he would never let you claw the seat like mine. The car is too nice, too expensive.
You keep moving, wriggling and squirming until you're both sitting, and you're straddling him. I can see the back of his dark head, his long neck, the beginning of his shoulders.
Your eyes are closed; your hands dig into his head, your mouth plastered to his.
I wonder what you taste like now. Has that changed? I hope you still taste like mint. Mint and rain and something husky I could never place, everything and anything that could ever exist, your mouth hot and fast against mine.
He pushes your shirt up and the scar is still pale against your tan, long and thick and stretched.
I said I was sorry, okay?
How many times do I have to say I'm sorry?
His hands run up and down your sides, dragging his tongue up your neck until he reaches your ear. His mouth closes around your ear lobe and he pulls at it with his teeth, you smirk and whisper something I would sell my soul to hear. He moves back down your neck, sucking and biting the skin until, even from here, I can see you're trembling.
My hands clench the steering wheel.
I lean closer, squinting through the dark. There should be a fucking light. My chest tightens as he says something that makes you laugh, and fucking hell I wish it was me. I wish it was my car you were in, I wish I was the one making you shake like that, I wish it was me writhing against you, I wish I never hurt you.
You look down, your attention focused on the zip of his jeans. Your arms move and he shudders, his head lolling on his shoulders.
You kiss him again, wriggling and rising up to your knees. The top of your head brushes the ceiling and you're lucky those pants as so easy to get off. He takes no more than seven seconds.
I was quicker.
He grabs you and pulls you back down roughly and you kiss all over his face. I close my eyes, exhaling shakily because I said I was sorry, I said it a thousand times why didn't you listen?
I wish you'd just listen.
You're so fucking beautiful.
When I open my eyes you're moving above him, his hands roaming your chest again, his fingers pinching and brushing everywhere and you gasp, digging your fingers into his head.
He rocks against you and I inhale sharply, hand reaching down and the zip is practically torn apart.
You lean back as far as you can, the moonlight catching the sweat coating your smooth forehead, watching him through slitted eyes. He tugs you flush against him again, desperately licking and tearing at your skin, his mouth moving with his groans. Your tongue flicks out over your lip, your teeth digging into the delicate pink flesh and my gasps echo through the car.
He bucks one final time, spent, you throw your head back and I moan, fingers cold against my exposed skin and I can imagine my fingers are really yours, and god, I would give anything to be the one fucking you.
You throw yourself against him, shaking violently, your fingers clawing at his back and your cry whips past me with the wind.
I grab the steering wheel and I have to bite my lip to stop myself screaming.
I quiver, trying to catch my breath again, my hand falling limp on my leg.
You remain motionless for a few minutes, slumped against him and I look around for something to clean myself up with.
Pierre would ask too many questions.
I can't find anything and I have to use my shirt instead.
When you finally move, you're smirking. You say something and he kisses you quickly, carefully pulling you off him. He rolls over you to the front seat and he has a towel. Where the fuck does he keep it? Somehow, it pisses me off. I never kept a towel. You always said it made everything seem too predictable and who knows because we might not always end up fucking. Except we did.
My watch says it's 1:15. I have to go, Pierre will be getting worried. I don't want to go.
I want to stay, I want to know what you talk about, what's been upsetting you lately, I want to crawl into his too-fancy car and drag you back into mine, I want to pin you to the backseat and fuck you until you can't remember why you don't love me anymore.
I want to stop crying.
I reverse slowly, and as I turn I get one last glimpse of you through the back mirror, wrapped up in his arms looking so fucking content.
On my way down I throw the soiled shirt out the window and whisper a goodbye you'll never hear.
Until tomorrow.