She clung to his neck, fingers curling, nails nearly breaking the smooth crevices of his neck. Her drunken smile threatened to blur and wobble like her skinned legs, her ability to grasp conscious reality easily teetering on the cliff of slumber's heavy submission. She smiled, her watery eyes pausing to study his stoic expression, twin orbs of clouded shale, filled with the exact affection reserved for the family puppy, his tail thumping against the wooden floor. His skin smelt musky, his jaw rigid, and she wanted nothing more than to feel the love he'd been stealing from her fingers. He liked to fiddle with the ends of her hair like the vibrating hairs of a Fender Stratocaster and she would shut her bleary eyes, floating away while he hit the wrong keys and slammed down flats that obnoxiously clashed with sharps.
Every word he whispered sounded dirty, the specific type of vulgarity that could only achieve full impact when slicing through clouds of hazy smoke and up-turned sneers. She'd seen a foreign film once, French, with subtitles glittering in gold. She wanted to be the actress that flew into the man's arms, skirt flying and feet barely grazing the concrete. A graceful vision in white, Delilah with shaking hands, a Siren uniting with her Muse.
Instead, he'd mimicked the accent with the typical American egoism and then shoved his hand underneath the waistband of her new Levis, Napoleon without a plan, dividing and conquering, rising and falling, until she couldn't draw a line in the sand, or differentiate the agony from the bliss, the pain from the pleasure, the way he made her want to get down on her knees and purr like Daddy's new Ferrari, with the leather, bucket seats and the stick shift that felt reckless and wild underneath her inexperienced hand.
She wanted to tame him, break him, control him, throw out the lock and swallow the damn key. Naturally, apprentice outsmarted the master and she found herself the Mustang, attempting to escape the false noose of his hot lasso. She burned to be special, to thaw his heart without wasting his precious patience.
Suffocate, Suffocate, Suffocate, she had to push past the details of the current and tread into the waters of the aftermath, because from quite a distance, this massacre could look like fireworks, the navy blues and the scorched reds that sprouted and crackled from her temples the Swan Song of the closing display. He would fall onto her again, like pancake batter sloppily falling down the sides of a chef's bowl, smothering the sprinkling of a few chocolate chips. And she would throw him that fucking grin that truly translated as eat shit and die you bastard, but he indulge in her hostility, that sick fuck, and he would push just a little bit harder, until she delivered that signature moan he'd been greedily anticipating. He always ripped out the buttons like he was splitting the wishbone of a Christmas turkey.
It was almost beautiful to watch him go in for the almighty kill.
This was lust not love, but until she could discover love, this would make a fine substitute.