Thursday Evening
folder
Romance › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
22
Views:
3,325
Reviews:
26
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Romance › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
22
Views:
3,325
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.
TV
A/N~ So, I realized that two of my chapter titles are remarkedly similiar. I also learned that gettting hit on the finger so hard that the nail doesn't stop bleeding for close to 24 hours is bad. Hence the delay. I've learned how to type not using that finger.
Anyway, reviews are appreciated.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The only reason I was not content with the night’s events was because of his final decision. He decided that he wanted to see her. I had stood back, and sighed as he told me this in the morning, trying to convince him otherwise. It had not worked. I don’t like the decision, and I’m going to go with him when he sees her, whether he agrees or not. I don’t want to have to break that promise that I had made.
I think I’m afraid for him. Afraid that he will go back to what he used to be, if I’m not with him, then.
He was lying down, head in my lap. I stroked his hair, absentmindedly. I just needed something to do with my hands. His hair is soft, and getting long. I’ve teased him about getting a haircut, but really, I like it better this way. It compliments his eyes better.
I wish he’d see my point. That she was not good for him, for me, for anyone. I just want him to be safe, and I’ve told him that before. But he’s being naïve. I don’t like telling him this story, but…
He’s asking me to describe his sister again. And, I do, focusing on all of the wretched details I can think of. I mention the cuts on her arm, the implied prostitution, everything. I quit stroking his hair to put in more gravity for when I tell him that she wanted him dead, then, resume. I gloss nothing over. And I speak another fear.
“She asked if you had AIDS, like she hoped that you did,” I say, looking into his eyes, which looked serious after the disease was mentioned.
He explains, keeping his eyes locked with mine, that he could. That not every guy was responsible. That even I hadn’t been. My heart’s beating too fast, now. I have this sudden vision of the world basically ending. Both of us dying, alone, and hated.
“But I don’t. It was only a possibility.” He turns his head back towards the TV, now that the commercial is over, and I can breathe again. I continue stroking his hair.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The concept of seeing my sister again was tempting, despite what Jon said. That she wasn’t worth it. He kept on repeating that, and he would list off the reasons why. Logically, I knew it would be best to ignore it. To stay away and pretend that last night hadn’t happened, like my head wished, but I couldn’t ignore this.
Not after what I’d already done for her.
He was trying to convince me too gently. Had he offered an ultimatum, I would have chosen him. He was a sure thing. My sister was not. But he wasn’t being that forceful. He was just trying to persuade me.
I kept on wondering, though, if we had met in a more traditional sense, if he would have allowed it? But I don’t want to ask. I’m afraid of the answer.
I had decided that I would bring him with me though, when I met her. He deserved that. And, if I was with him, there was no need for self-destruction. He kept that part of me hidden, like it wasn’t even there.
I’m lying down, head on his lap. It’s perfectly innocent, as the TV is on, and we’re watching it, talking about what to do with my sister on the commercials.
I ask him what she was like again. I can hear him sigh. I want him to disillusion me, but it’s not working. He talks of what’s become of her. And he stops stroking my hair when he decides to tell me that she wanted me dead. I wish he hadn’t stopped. The words mean nothing, but the gentle motion of his hand in my hair… that’s comforting. He looks serious for a second, almost worried, then speaks again.
“She asked if you had AIDS, like she hoped that you did,” he mutters, softly, like he’s ashamed to mention it. Like it’s his own question.
I tell him that I could. That not every guy had practiced safe sex. I hate admitting this. I hate knowing the reason I got myself tested was because of him. Those thoughts that had seemed half-delusional back in those days, that somehow, he would come and rescue me, and I didn’t want to hurt him. I don’t tell him this.
“But I don’t. It was only a possibility,” I say, after seeing his bright eyes widen in fear. He didn’t need to worry, at least, not about disease. I turn my head to watch TV, again, feeling slightly guilty.
Anyway, reviews are appreciated.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The only reason I was not content with the night’s events was because of his final decision. He decided that he wanted to see her. I had stood back, and sighed as he told me this in the morning, trying to convince him otherwise. It had not worked. I don’t like the decision, and I’m going to go with him when he sees her, whether he agrees or not. I don’t want to have to break that promise that I had made.
I think I’m afraid for him. Afraid that he will go back to what he used to be, if I’m not with him, then.
He was lying down, head in my lap. I stroked his hair, absentmindedly. I just needed something to do with my hands. His hair is soft, and getting long. I’ve teased him about getting a haircut, but really, I like it better this way. It compliments his eyes better.
I wish he’d see my point. That she was not good for him, for me, for anyone. I just want him to be safe, and I’ve told him that before. But he’s being naïve. I don’t like telling him this story, but…
He’s asking me to describe his sister again. And, I do, focusing on all of the wretched details I can think of. I mention the cuts on her arm, the implied prostitution, everything. I quit stroking his hair to put in more gravity for when I tell him that she wanted him dead, then, resume. I gloss nothing over. And I speak another fear.
“She asked if you had AIDS, like she hoped that you did,” I say, looking into his eyes, which looked serious after the disease was mentioned.
He explains, keeping his eyes locked with mine, that he could. That not every guy was responsible. That even I hadn’t been. My heart’s beating too fast, now. I have this sudden vision of the world basically ending. Both of us dying, alone, and hated.
“But I don’t. It was only a possibility.” He turns his head back towards the TV, now that the commercial is over, and I can breathe again. I continue stroking his hair.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The concept of seeing my sister again was tempting, despite what Jon said. That she wasn’t worth it. He kept on repeating that, and he would list off the reasons why. Logically, I knew it would be best to ignore it. To stay away and pretend that last night hadn’t happened, like my head wished, but I couldn’t ignore this.
Not after what I’d already done for her.
He was trying to convince me too gently. Had he offered an ultimatum, I would have chosen him. He was a sure thing. My sister was not. But he wasn’t being that forceful. He was just trying to persuade me.
I kept on wondering, though, if we had met in a more traditional sense, if he would have allowed it? But I don’t want to ask. I’m afraid of the answer.
I had decided that I would bring him with me though, when I met her. He deserved that. And, if I was with him, there was no need for self-destruction. He kept that part of me hidden, like it wasn’t even there.
I’m lying down, head on his lap. It’s perfectly innocent, as the TV is on, and we’re watching it, talking about what to do with my sister on the commercials.
I ask him what she was like again. I can hear him sigh. I want him to disillusion me, but it’s not working. He talks of what’s become of her. And he stops stroking my hair when he decides to tell me that she wanted me dead. I wish he hadn’t stopped. The words mean nothing, but the gentle motion of his hand in my hair… that’s comforting. He looks serious for a second, almost worried, then speaks again.
“She asked if you had AIDS, like she hoped that you did,” he mutters, softly, like he’s ashamed to mention it. Like it’s his own question.
I tell him that I could. That not every guy had practiced safe sex. I hate admitting this. I hate knowing the reason I got myself tested was because of him. Those thoughts that had seemed half-delusional back in those days, that somehow, he would come and rescue me, and I didn’t want to hurt him. I don’t tell him this.
“But I don’t. It was only a possibility,” I say, after seeing his bright eyes widen in fear. He didn’t need to worry, at least, not about disease. I turn my head to watch TV, again, feeling slightly guilty.