Everything is back where it belongs
The next day I was bouncing from extreme happiness to some sort of embarrassment for throwing myself on him like that, all on the background of an acute hangover. We didn't go any further; he said he didn't want to take advantage of my state. I replied I wasn't having sex on first dates anyway.
Instead, we had some coffee and talked a bit. He lived on my street, at a different number. He used to be a firefighter, but a work accident prevented him from working anymore. That's all he told me. I didn't ask for more, I was already lecturing myself, in my mind, about the way I behaved that evening. I didn't want to ask him things that would have made him feel uncomfortable.
As I told him about myself, I watched to catch any reactions he might have, but he didn't react much. I liked that.
“It's nice in here,” he said at some point, his glance taking in my house.
“It used to be a firefighter department here, you know?” He told me, and I thought I could read a sad note in his warm, soothing voice.
He only nodded. He didn't speak much. I liked that about him, too, for whatever reason.
I didn't tell those I knew “Hey, I made a new friend!” I kept quiet about this; this sense of secrecy was giving me the feeling of having something that was only mine. My hidden treasure of happiness.
In the following days I was touching my lips, thinking that there had been his lips – cool and soft. In the following days I played and re-played in my mind, fast forward, rewind, play, the film of my time with him in that evening. I could almost hear again the sound of his extremely calm voice. He had this peacefulness in him as if there were no longer any worries in this world for him, as if he knew all there was to know about life and everything, actually. He had some sort of sad serenity, in the same time.
I called the one that was doing the research about my house, though, and told her what my new friend had said. She confirmed.
“Have a little patience, soon I will be done with all of it, and I will send it to you,” she added.
And then, a few days later, on a cold and sunny afternoon, I saw him again on the street. I raced down and asked him in again. He smiled and accepted.
This time he wasn't all in black; he had this bright white shirt he was wearing. As I followed him up the stairs to my place, though, I could see on the right part of the back of his neck a scar disappearing under the collar of that bright, white shirt.
In the daylight though, it took me longer until I gained the courage to start kissing him. I am not usually shy, but there was something about him that was a bit intimidating. His lips, again cool and soft, his skin, rather cold under my touch, but, in the same time, I could sense in him some sort of hunger, in the way he was almost devouring my lips, his touches, the way he kept me closer to his body.
I touched him through the delicate fabric of his shirt. Then my fingers sneaked further, to unbutton it, as I still kept kissing him, rubbing my body against his, and especially my crotch against his thigh.
His hand, cold fingers wrapping around mine in a gentle gesture, prevented me from trying to get the shirt off him.
We continued kissing, but he wouldn't go further, neither he wouldn't let me undress him. Maybe it was too soon ...
I didn't comment, at his second rejection. What puzzled me though, was that he didn’t reject me completely; he continued kissing and making out with me. Just that he wouldn't let me take his clothes off.
The sun was setting, shadows grew long and dark, like the claws of a monster aiming to take over the humans' oh, so animated, colorful and loud world.
At his third rejection I couldn't contain myself for a split of a moment, and almost pushed him away.
“I'm sorry,” his almost whispering voice sounded so harsh in the silence inside the room.
Outside – the noises of the street.
I stood up. He remained sat on the edge of my couch, head leaned forward, exposing to my glance the back of his neck. Even if it wasn't completely dark outside yet, it was hard to distinguish much, as the sun had set, and few traces of daylight still lingered. I wanted to touch the back of his neck, I wanted to know how that scar would feel under my fingers, I wanted to see how big it was, I wanted to see how bad and hideous it was and not to be scared by it.
But, I guessed, he was so terrified by it, that he didn't want anyone else to see it. Not even me. Who was I to deserve preferential treatment anyway? I had to earn this right, it wasn't granted to me just like that.
I knelt in front of him and took his face with cold skin, between my palms. I looked into the darkness of his eyes.
“I'm sorry,” I murmured. “I didn't realize.”
With that, I moved my face closer to his and placed a kiss on his lips.
It was dark in my room, only the silvery, cold rays of the moon from outside, mixed with electric light coming from the light posts on the street. But it seemed even darker than if I would have closed my eyes. The only way I could “see” was with my fingers, my touches on his skin; the uneven skin on his back, partly on his arm and torso – this is what my fingers “saw”. It must have looked horrible, then. It was a miracle he survived, I thought.
The next day I was still wearing the sensation of his kisses all over my body. If he didn't allow me to see him, and he did his best not to let me touch him much, he compensated by spoiling my body with kisses and sweet caresses. The next day I was still bearing the sensation of his tongue licking my inner thighs, his hot mouth taking me in. My body still had the memory of him entering me, my knees felt that sweet soreness, my lips, the way his teeth would bite into my flesh as he was kissing me fervently. The next day I felt as if each part of my body has been molded and played with; along with that pleasant tiredness.
The next day, when I woke up, he wasn't in my bed. I raised my head a bit, but I realized I was alone. Then, as I was placing my temple back on the pillow I recalled it, like a fading dream – him, getting out of the bed and waking me up, and me looking up at him through my eyelashes. He smiled and kissed my forehead, and then he told me he had to go, and that I should go back to sleep. I thought of closing my eyes and pretending to have fallen back to sleep, but, actually, to watch him getting ready to leave. It wasn't completely daylight, but enough to see.
The moment I closed my eyes, I was lost for the real world.
I was having the impulse to just go and tell someone. But, no! I was closing my palm over this treasure of mine, protecting it. It was my secret. He was my secret. And only me, with my mind's eye, could see replayed, on and on, the happenings of the night before. I still could feel how he was slowly placing kisses along my spine, as I was laying on my stomach; he kept kissing toward my lower back. The remembrance of his touches as he parted my thighs was still sending shivers throughout my flesh.
Why did he have to go?
I went out that day, then returned home and worked, losing track of time and of everything.
Did he really have to go or he just didn't want me to see him naked?
To be continued...