All I really want is just him. And that’s about it. That’s about it. And the more I write and the more I think, the worst it gets and the worst it seems.
Of course I miss him. What else do I think about nowadays? Not missing him? Oh, you give me too much credit. I miss him like hell. I want to stop thinking about him. But it’s ridiculously difficult.
Truth to tell, he had no idea where he was going. There was something dangerously alluring to a city at night, with amber lights, silent streets and swish of cars on the highway. The mannequins, decked in spring fashion, were his company.
“So, uh,” he started, plucking a grape from the empty branches sitting in the bowl, “how was your day?”
“Marvelous, yours?” She replied without looking up, her fingers settled gently on the ivory keys and with delicacy and slowness she started playing, as if she were testing the water. The music escaped from the piano, a prisoner set free, echoing across the hall, the sunlit pooled like an angel’s hair on the marble floor.
“A little less than marvelous, I have to say,” he ate another grape, “somewhere between tragic and depressing.”
“Miserable?”
He weighed the word in his mind and after some deliberation said, “Yeah,” he nodded to himself, “yeah, miserable.”
“I’m terribly sorry for your misfortune.” He watched her fingers fluttered between keys.
“Sarcasm noted,” he rested one elbow on the piano and looked at her with a playful curiosity and slight grimace of pain, “it really shouldn’t surprise you how my days are, the way you treat me.”
“I’m not surprised, Mr. Frost,” she replied, a string of notes flowed from the instrument, she paused, fingers on the keys and looked up at him for the first time, “I’m delighted.” And she pounded down on her next chord.
“Lillith, you’re too pretty to be so terrible.” He got up and strolled over to the window. A plump, red bird landed on a branch, its beady eyes turning to meet his.
“Flattery won’t get you anywhere.”
The bird jerked forward and spread its wings, soaring towards the sun and for a brief moment, Frost was reminded of Icarus. The branch wavered. He turned and looked at her, the way her chocolate curls rested on her shoulders, in the crook of her collarbone, he returned to the piano, but this time put his arms around her neck. The music continued.
“But this will,” he whispered, his breath tickling her ears.
“Try harder, Mr. Frost.” She replied, matching his decibel.
His hands found their way to her breasts, her nipples were stiffening from his mere touch. He massaged them gently, a small moan escaping from her lips as she missed note. His lips found their way to her neck, small nips and kisses made her quiver, leading to her lips. He gently tipped her head towards his. She strained to key playing, as he kissed her, the music stopped.
She spun around on her bench to face him, a hand in his golden hair, his busy hand moved further down her body, down her stomach, towards her legs.
“Impatient, aren’t we?” She mumbled, as he broke the kiss and moves to one of her astute nipples. He grunted in response, one hand up her skirt already, he gently palmed her through her underwear, feeling her wetness.
“You’re one to talk,” he grinned, looking up at her.