I Walk The Line

The light from the first sun rays hit my face, awaking me with fireworks inside my head, as if saying that I should straighten up or die some of these nights with blood on my nose and my liver waving the white flag.

I look around trying to figure out what’s going on. The bed is too big to be mine. I get up slowly and get dressed trying to be as silent as possible to avoid attention from whoever lives here.

“Are you awake, love?” A voice, fortunately female, yells from the bathroom.

I stand still. Love? What the fuck? I don’t even know the source of the voice and she’s already calling me love?

I take off the recently dressed trousers and go back to bed. I close my eyes.

I hear the bathroom door being open. The sun light bothers me profoundly. Don’t open your eyes. The more I tell myself to be still, more uneasy I get. I feel the mattress moving while she climbs it and slowly crawls towards me. Don’t make a sound.

Her wet hair carresses my chest while her face gets closer to mine. Her smell is sweet, but it makes me wanna sneeze. Don’t sneeze, for fuck’s sake. I wonder if it’s too suspicious if I hold my breath to dodge the sneeze. I risk it. She kisses me right in the critical sneeze moment and I run out of air. I jump out of bed, almost knocking her down in the process.

“I’m sorry!” I say when I see what I’ve done. “Are you OK?”

She just smiles and kisses me again.

“Breakfast’s ready.” She says, swinging away, wearing only a white sleeveless top and her underwear. If you could see the arse I’m seeing, your jaw would be on the floor.

First she calls me love, then she wants to have breakfast with me. Who the hell does she think she is?

The smell of scrambled eggs and toast flies into my nostrils while I get dressed. Maybe breakfast won’t hurt.

I roam through her apartment, following the scent all the way to the kitchen. I take a look at her books around the house. Kerouac, Wilde, Bukowski, Becket… The girl sure has a good taste. And there she is, all sexy, her back turned to me while pouring herself a cup of coffee, her body drawn by the golden light coming in from the window. Film directors call this time of day the Magic Hour. You can see why.

I still couldn’t take a good look at her face, only her brown straight hair and out of this world arse.

“Help yourself.” She says finally turning to me and giving me a chance to look at that wide smile, thin nose and green eyes.

Maybe it is time to walk the line.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.