a some thing some thing
A triple dog dare and some pinky swearing had me writing this for Scribere.
Because we all need a little some thing some thing.
***
“Last call,” the bartender takes the empty glass from in front of him. He manages to hold up two fingers and watches the bartender pour a last double. He swiftly downs the contents and pays his tab.
“We’re closing,” the bartender offers as someone walks through the door. The woman nods, a compressed smile on her face. She’s petite, blonde, and she’s not there for a drink. She’s there for the guy who just downed the final round of the evening. He made his last call about 20 minutes ago, and it was to her.
“It’s cold outside,” she stands near him and watches him slowly stand. He towers over her, but across the years she’s become accustomed to that difference. She counts on that difference. He clumsily shrugs into his dark wool coat and pulls a dark watchcap into a lopsided position over his unruly grey curls. She smiles, patiently observing his drunken motions as he gets ready to face a cold night that he won’t even feel.
She walks behind him as he navigates the short distance to the door. He pushes when he should be pulling and he can’t seem to rearrange his brain to do the right thing. She softly steps in front of him and helps with the door. The freezing night air burns in her lungs, forcing her to take a step backward. She bumps into him and he automatically catches hold of her, gently on her upper arms. He holds her weight for a moment, before he stumbles sideways, slamming into the door jamb. She shakes her head, he almost had her. He’s often about the almost.
He takes his familiar position in the passenger side of her car. He thinks the seat feels more like home than his actual home. Not surprising, he spends more hours riding around with her then he does sleeping in his bed. He leans his head against the coolness of the window and watches the street lights slip by.
When she pulls up at his building she puts the car in park and sits there for a moment thinking about what to do. Usually he spills out of the car onto the curb. She’s in the habit of watching him until he’s inside. But tonight he’s not moving. She turns the ignition off and goes round to the passenger side. His eyes are closed, but by his breathing she knows that he’s not out cold. He’s just gearing up to go inside. She opens the door and catches him before he falls on top of her.
He drops his keys at least three times in the short walk toward the door. The third time, she doesn’t wait for him to attempt to retrieve them from the sidewalk. She scoops them up in her hand and figures tonight she’s going to have to help him inside. Third time’s the charm.
In the elevator she presses his floor. The button doesn’t light up so she presses again. After a moment the elevator doors close and she figures the light is broken. He’s leaning against the back wall. The elevator hasn’t started moving, he leans forward to press the button again. He falls onto her. She catches him with her palms flat against his chest.
“I pushed the button,” her voice is soft. “It’s broken.” Her eyes are locked with his.
“I know the feeling,” he says. She can feel his heart beating very slowly underneath her fingers. He doesn’t look away and he doesn’t back away. He steadies himself by placing his palms against the elevator wall behind her. She holds her ground, millimeters between them.
When the elevator doors open on his floor, she realizes that she didn’t even know that the elevator had moved. He stumbles out into the hall, she follows with his keys in her hands. She moves in front of him at his door. He stands so close behind her that the unshaven whiskers on his chin catch against her fine hair.
She works the double lock. As she turns the knob he pushes in behind her, on top of her, his feet stumbling with hers until they slam sideways into the entryway wall. She winces from the pain in her shoulder and closes her eyes.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, something he often feels and rarely says.
“It’s okay,” her reply is automatic. She can feel the heat of him close to her. The air is tight between them.
He reaches out and runs his fingers along her shoulder, his eyes holding hers. She doesn’t step away. He trails his hand along her shoulder to her collar and up to the straight line of her jaw. He cannot not touch her, and once he does, he can’t conceive of taking his hand away.
“It’s okay,” she’s not even sure she’s said the words, she’s only sort of referring to her shoulder. She pushes his coat off his shoulders, moving the silly watchcap off his head. “It’s okay,” she repeats, undoing her coat, undoing his shirt, undoing her shirt. She cannot not have him touching her.
His first kiss is to her throat, just underneath the jaw. He can feel her pulse quicken against his lips. “It’s okay,” she breathes the words again. His fingers are fumbling against the closure of her jeans, of his jeans. He’s desperate to touch someone. She’s desperate for someone to touch her. She gasps as he places his hand between her thighs, picking her up slightly and pressing her against the wall.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, thinking maybe he’s hurt her, maybe he’s gone too far.
“It’s okay,” her voice is hoarse. Asking for more, she threads her hands up and into his hair. She’s his last call.
Because we all need a little some thing some thing.
***
“Last call,” the bartender takes the empty glass from in front of him. He manages to hold up two fingers and watches the bartender pour a last double. He swiftly downs the contents and pays his tab.
“We’re closing,” the bartender offers as someone walks through the door. The woman nods, a compressed smile on her face. She’s petite, blonde, and she’s not there for a drink. She’s there for the guy who just downed the final round of the evening. He made his last call about 20 minutes ago, and it was to her.
“It’s cold outside,” she stands near him and watches him slowly stand. He towers over her, but across the years she’s become accustomed to that difference. She counts on that difference. He clumsily shrugs into his dark wool coat and pulls a dark watchcap into a lopsided position over his unruly grey curls. She smiles, patiently observing his drunken motions as he gets ready to face a cold night that he won’t even feel.
She walks behind him as he navigates the short distance to the door. He pushes when he should be pulling and he can’t seem to rearrange his brain to do the right thing. She softly steps in front of him and helps with the door. The freezing night air burns in her lungs, forcing her to take a step backward. She bumps into him and he automatically catches hold of her, gently on her upper arms. He holds her weight for a moment, before he stumbles sideways, slamming into the door jamb. She shakes her head, he almost had her. He’s often about the almost.
He takes his familiar position in the passenger side of her car. He thinks the seat feels more like home than his actual home. Not surprising, he spends more hours riding around with her then he does sleeping in his bed. He leans his head against the coolness of the window and watches the street lights slip by.
When she pulls up at his building she puts the car in park and sits there for a moment thinking about what to do. Usually he spills out of the car onto the curb. She’s in the habit of watching him until he’s inside. But tonight he’s not moving. She turns the ignition off and goes round to the passenger side. His eyes are closed, but by his breathing she knows that he’s not out cold. He’s just gearing up to go inside. She opens the door and catches him before he falls on top of her.
He drops his keys at least three times in the short walk toward the door. The third time, she doesn’t wait for him to attempt to retrieve them from the sidewalk. She scoops them up in her hand and figures tonight she’s going to have to help him inside. Third time’s the charm.
In the elevator she presses his floor. The button doesn’t light up so she presses again. After a moment the elevator doors close and she figures the light is broken. He’s leaning against the back wall. The elevator hasn’t started moving, he leans forward to press the button again. He falls onto her. She catches him with her palms flat against his chest.
“I pushed the button,” her voice is soft. “It’s broken.” Her eyes are locked with his.
“I know the feeling,” he says. She can feel his heart beating very slowly underneath her fingers. He doesn’t look away and he doesn’t back away. He steadies himself by placing his palms against the elevator wall behind her. She holds her ground, millimeters between them.
When the elevator doors open on his floor, she realizes that she didn’t even know that the elevator had moved. He stumbles out into the hall, she follows with his keys in her hands. She moves in front of him at his door. He stands so close behind her that the unshaven whiskers on his chin catch against her fine hair.
She works the double lock. As she turns the knob he pushes in behind her, on top of her, his feet stumbling with hers until they slam sideways into the entryway wall. She winces from the pain in her shoulder and closes her eyes.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, something he often feels and rarely says.
“It’s okay,” her reply is automatic. She can feel the heat of him close to her. The air is tight between them.
He reaches out and runs his fingers along her shoulder, his eyes holding hers. She doesn’t step away. He trails his hand along her shoulder to her collar and up to the straight line of her jaw. He cannot not touch her, and once he does, he can’t conceive of taking his hand away.
“It’s okay,” she’s not even sure she’s said the words, she’s only sort of referring to her shoulder. She pushes his coat off his shoulders, moving the silly watchcap off his head. “It’s okay,” she repeats, undoing her coat, undoing his shirt, undoing her shirt. She cannot not have him touching her.
His first kiss is to her throat, just underneath the jaw. He can feel her pulse quicken against his lips. “It’s okay,” she breathes the words again. His fingers are fumbling against the closure of her jeans, of his jeans. He’s desperate to touch someone. She’s desperate for someone to touch her. She gasps as he places his hand between her thighs, picking her up slightly and pressing her against the wall.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, thinking maybe he’s hurt her, maybe he’s gone too far.
“It’s okay,” her voice is hoarse. Asking for more, she threads her hands up and into his hair. She’s his last call.