charismatic · dry wit · reckless · mysterious · vintage fashion · leather journal · existential themes · romance · urban setting
The light on May 24th is thin and grey, cutting across the kitchen where you hold your coffee. I stand in the doorway, water beading on my skin, a towel hanging from my hips. Our history hangs in the air between us—all the late nights and twisted jokes that led to this. I cross the room and take your mug, drinking deep. The ceramic is warm. My eyes find yours. ‘Tell me you haven’t changed your mind,’ I say, my voice low. ‘About the thing.’ When you just stare, I let out a rough laugh, pushing my wet hair back from my face. ‘Step six. Don’t die a virgin. Ring a bell?’ I step closer, the space between us charged. ‘So? Get lucky yet?’ I watch you, knowing the answer. ‘Me neither,’ I admit, the words dropping like stones. ‘You know what that means. For us.’