Thursday Evening
folder
Romance › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
22
Views:
3,323
Reviews:
26
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Romance › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
22
Views:
3,323
Reviews:
26
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
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A/N~ This is late. JanNo has been stealing all my creativity. And New Year's Day wasa bit more intense than I expected.
Anyway... Thanks for the reviews. Enjoy.
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He healed slowly. But when started to look like himself, I started to call him the ‘pretty one’. He seemed vaguely annoyed with that. Maybe I liked calling him that because he retaliated by calling me the ‘prettier one’. Or maybe because the reaction itself made me happy.
I stayed home for a couple of days. Trying to do all those things I wished someone would do for me when I was so broken. And I knew he would have done the same for me. I feigned illness to stay with him on those days.
It was odd, returning to work next time. I still thought that I would be discovered. That someone would realize what I had done in the past. But it didn’t matter so much, anymore. It didn’t matter like it used to.
I wondered what the people at his job would say. Would they wonder how he’d gotten into that fight? Probably. Would they actually ask? And if they did, would he tell them the truth?
His mother called me, and asked me how he was. How we were. She said things that I always imagined a mother would say. That she wanted to get to know me, if we were serious. That she would take us out to lunch. I accepted, hesitantly, as if I were expecting it to be some kind of joke. Or a prank. But then I remembered, she wasn’t my mother.
The problem arose when we went to his work. He was not there. Apparently, he had called off. But I had seen him leave. His mom had gasped that annoying gasp that women have when they know they are right.
She whispered that she was sorry, then patted my shoulder in what she hoped was affectionate. I called off the rest of the day. I went home, hoping to find him, asleep or sick. But he was not home.
My stomach’s empty. I swear I haven’t eaten since breakfast. But my stomach hurts. I feel weak and nauseous.
I can’t think. Every time I begin to have some thought that’s beginning to make sense, it disappears. I’m shaking again. I lay down and I get right back up. I haven’t been this stressed since I lived with my parents. But it was less painful then. I had not known happiness. This reminded me of it. This anxiousness. This betrayal.
Where was he? He was not answering his phone.
I ran my fingers through my hair out of nervousness. I bit my nails. Finally, I knew the one last place where I didn’t want to look. Not that he’d be there, but there would be something to take the edge off. Something that I always avoided.
He always kept some in the fridge, because he drank. Not often enough to be annoying, or to make me uncomfortable, but there is still some there.
My mind isn’t working. I stared at it. Debating.
“Why the Hell not?” I ask myself, finally. Then, I grabbed a beer, and downed it.
Anyway... Thanks for the reviews. Enjoy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He healed slowly. But when started to look like himself, I started to call him the ‘pretty one’. He seemed vaguely annoyed with that. Maybe I liked calling him that because he retaliated by calling me the ‘prettier one’. Or maybe because the reaction itself made me happy.
I stayed home for a couple of days. Trying to do all those things I wished someone would do for me when I was so broken. And I knew he would have done the same for me. I feigned illness to stay with him on those days.
It was odd, returning to work next time. I still thought that I would be discovered. That someone would realize what I had done in the past. But it didn’t matter so much, anymore. It didn’t matter like it used to.
I wondered what the people at his job would say. Would they wonder how he’d gotten into that fight? Probably. Would they actually ask? And if they did, would he tell them the truth?
His mother called me, and asked me how he was. How we were. She said things that I always imagined a mother would say. That she wanted to get to know me, if we were serious. That she would take us out to lunch. I accepted, hesitantly, as if I were expecting it to be some kind of joke. Or a prank. But then I remembered, she wasn’t my mother.
The problem arose when we went to his work. He was not there. Apparently, he had called off. But I had seen him leave. His mom had gasped that annoying gasp that women have when they know they are right.
She whispered that she was sorry, then patted my shoulder in what she hoped was affectionate. I called off the rest of the day. I went home, hoping to find him, asleep or sick. But he was not home.
My stomach’s empty. I swear I haven’t eaten since breakfast. But my stomach hurts. I feel weak and nauseous.
I can’t think. Every time I begin to have some thought that’s beginning to make sense, it disappears. I’m shaking again. I lay down and I get right back up. I haven’t been this stressed since I lived with my parents. But it was less painful then. I had not known happiness. This reminded me of it. This anxiousness. This betrayal.
Where was he? He was not answering his phone.
I ran my fingers through my hair out of nervousness. I bit my nails. Finally, I knew the one last place where I didn’t want to look. Not that he’d be there, but there would be something to take the edge off. Something that I always avoided.
He always kept some in the fridge, because he drank. Not often enough to be annoying, or to make me uncomfortable, but there is still some there.
My mind isn’t working. I stared at it. Debating.
“Why the Hell not?” I ask myself, finally. Then, I grabbed a beer, and downed it.