I wonder what it means when she taps her fingers on my window after sex. She does it every night, wrapped in a blanket barely covering her nude form as I recline on the bed, propped on mounds of pillows and exhausted. Her fingers tap and the frame shakes a little and the night outside remains the same. The curtains, soft and delicate, flutter around her, framing her, and she smiles sadly back at me and I nod a little and laugh. And she crawls back on top of me and kisses me and we laugh again, and then I'm lost in the softness of her skin and the hunger of her tongue and the cool infinity of her curves and then we're fucking again and again and again.
I trace a hand down her back as she sleeps, tattoos of spiders and snakes and trees and lyrics in an unknown language curling around my outstretched fingers. My hand dances in zigzags to avoid the snakes, lest they bite me. They wiggle and squirm out of the way of my roving hands as I work, up towards muscled shoulders guarding pointed bones. I trace the shape of her blades, hidden under that radiant skin, soft as anything, and I lean in to kiss the nape of her neck. My lips remain planted against her, enjoying the light salt taste of her skin, the feeling of her against me. Nothing brings me more joy than the little noises she makes, first sad, and then contented when I wrap an arm around her and pull her close, pull the blankets tighter, make the room feel warm and cozy instead of vast and cavernous.
We met at a punk concert. It was dark, lit only by the flashing loud lights of the stage, and I was dancing, bobbing up and down, jumping and leaping and crashing, throwing everything I had into moving with the raging noise and crowd. The opening act was screaming and I was screaming too and I made eye contact with her, leaning imperiously against the wall. She was alone. She looked so small and so, same wistful sad look in her eyes. She leaned against the wall and sighed and I excused myself and went to go buy her a drink.
I don't think she exists, actually. She came home with me that night and never left, fucking and resting and sleeping and cuddling with me. We stayed in my room together all weekend, nothing but our pleasure. We curled around each other, fed each other chocolate, and watched my favourite movies, and she laughed at the right parts and cried at the wrong ones. I ran my hand down her arms as she wrapped herself around me, her lips on my forehead, my cheeks, my neck. She nibbled my ears, tongue darting in and out and around, her teeth warm against my earlobe, and I moaned a little, so she stayed like that for hours, as we watched hot women fight monsters. It was idyllic.
And finally it was Monday and I had to work so I fried eggs for her and she kissed me and I felt like I would never see her again. She walked out that door, turned for a second, and looked as though she was about to say something, her golden eyes sparkling. But she didn't. She turned and was gone and all I could do was stare at the empty space she was and think that I must've made some terrible mistake.
I see her in mirrors, which was weird because she had no reflection, nothing visible behind me when she'd pushed me into the mirror as she'd taken me from behind, hours spend with her thrusting into me, forced to meet my own gaze and moan. But I see her now, eyes hovering ever behind me, fiery and angry. I see them in everything I do, her touch down my back as I dress, her thoughts on my outfit, on my choices, on my brain. I miss her, so this new companion is okay. It makes me less alone. It dances in the corners of my computer screen, the outsides of windows, the movement of wind. It tells me that I'm okay. That I'm still loved.
I got a tattoo of a snake to match hers. It curls my arm, circling, fangs out and menacing. It doesn't hiss or twist like hers did. It never rears up and sinks its fangs into me, the pleasant jab of pain accompanying the pleasure, the promise of control, her hand on my chin lifting my gaze to hers, controlling and powerful. It doesn't aid in my desperation for her to once again touch me, tease me, do anything to me. She could do anything to me and I would just beg her for more. She already had, perhaps.
I saw in her in my dreams, larger than life and glorious. She held me as I shrank, whispering comfort, her tongue lashing me, her hands promising pleasure and pain in equal amounts. She took control always. I just felt so safe with her. She would tell me I was good and I believed her. She danced through my brain until my alarm blared and I was awake and struggling, rolling out of my cold and empty bed into the harshness of the day.
I never saw her again.