Why You Should Never Say Never

Bee always said she would never have a one night stand — until she did.

Until she realized she was actually kinda good at it.

Booty call?

Two words, one text message. One question to be answered by a knock on the door. It was a Thursday night and she was tipsy after her office happy hour and she was tired but not quite ready to fall asleep. Not yet, anyway.

Yea, you home? Address?

ETA?

See you in 15.

The gate chimed and she hit the door buzzer, heard the double doors shut behind him and his footsteps climb the twenty wooden steps to her floor. She shut one eye and peered out the spy-hole until Kellen’s distorted face appeared in the fishbowl way the glass and the hall light bent it.

She let him in, they exchanged quick hellos, and then he grabbed a fistful of her hair and pressed his hand against the back of her head and drew her to him. Something — adrenaline? lust? — it felt like heat and she was bold and brave and powerful, too. She kissed him back harder and together they tripped into her room, laughing and kissing and tugging at clothing, annoyed at the layers delaying their intentions.

When it was over they laid there on her bed, their feet on the pillows and heads near the footboard. Her comforter was rumpled and the fitted sheet had slipped off the top left corner but for once she didn’t care her bed wasn’t perfectly made.

He rolled on his side to face her and let his fingers gently skim her chest, his mouth finding her neck. That was fun, he said, lips dancing against her.

They were sweaty and when she laid her head on his chest she could hear his heart beating too quickly as well.

Should I stay or should I go?

No sir, you gotta go. I have to wakeup early for a workout tomorrow.

Well I can tell the workouts are working. He smacked her ass as he stood up to retrieve his discarded clothing from various corners of the room. Let’s do this again sometime.

She laughed and agreed. And when he kissed her goodbye and she shut and locked the door behind his retreating figure, fixed her sheets and crawled into bed naked and alone, she told herself she didn’t mind it in the slightest — this random meeting of bodies.

But when he had wound the purple satin around her wrists and secured it expertly to the headboard, she couldn’t help but picture the sets of soft pink wrists the fabric had so delicately bit into before.

—

Heartbreak is a funny thing — we know how to avoid the pangs yet we chase them anyway. We kill ourselves slowly, every check of social media a bullet, every unchecked thought, a stab.

A rampage of imagination, a war of soul. I surrender.

—

Day No. 16 of my #100DayProject. 100 days of fiction, 100 days of story. Watch the story unfold here, day by day.