[The very first "picture-story" I ever wrote, back in July of 2006...FOR MATURE AUDIENCES ONLY; READER DISCRETION ADVISED]



“You don’t have to go.”

She hated how she sounded, needy and vulnerable. She couldn’t look at him with her unmade hair, her unmade face. In her unmade bed. Unmade love to.

It wasn’t supposed to go this way.

His motions were swift, practiced, a man used to dressing to perfection in a hurry. She felt like a whore, even though nothing happened.

When he called last night she was so excited. Made the room up just right.Everything perfect, so he would remember. So he would want to remember.

“You don’t have to go.”

She hated how she sounded, but felt stuck in the cycle, like a hamster in one of those wheels.

“It can be like it was. You can throw me to the ground and ravage me, bite my breasts the way you like.”

She felt for the mark he made. There had been a scar once, but it was gone now. Only the memory remained. She missed that scar. Proof of Them.

“You can fuck me until I howl out in pleasure to the trees. Then we can fall asleep together among the leaves.”

He turned around, fumbling with the knot of his tie as open anger etched his face.”

“You think it can be like it was in high school because you open a goddam window and bring in some goddam plants! It can’t be like it was. It can never be like that again.”

“It can be.”

Stubborn, refusing to agree, if only to keep him fighting. She missed his passion. She missed how angry he would get at world injustices, how he’d rail against the system. He was a part of the system now. She even missed his anger towards her. There was a rawness to it, animal inside man. Usually after a fight they would make love gently, softly, whispering words of reconciliation to each other.

But if he got angry enough, he used to take her, wherever, whenever, without any consideration for her or her surroundings.

He would rip her clothes and take her so hard her vision would blur. In a frenzy he’d take her, sometimes spilling his seed down her leg, not able to make it all the way to her sex.

She always protested, but inside she loved it. Loved how much passion erupted out of him, that he could not wait, he had to have her right then.

It made her feel wanted. It made her feel desired. It made her feel complete.

The opposite of how she felt now, and so she pushed at him, goading him.

“Forget the surroundings. You didn’t even try. For all I know you can’t get it up anymore.”

She tensed. He was very proud, and would take no insult to his powers. His face darkened, and he raised a hand as if to strike her, though still halfway across the room. As he raised his hand a glimmer of light came in through the billowing curtains and caught his hand just right.

The ring gleamed, and he stared at it, transfixed. She looked at the ring like it was a viper. He shook the ring finger at her. It felt worse than a slap.

“This is why it can never be the same.”

The words deflated him. He was quiet now. In desperation she reached for him, letting the blanket fall. Let him get just some of that passion back.

She looked at him for the first time.

“Isn’t all we had worth one more try?”

He looked at her, cold, death decided.

“All we have is all we had.”

He turned and walked out, leaving her empty on her unmade bed.

Aw, I need a hug!

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