Written by Karla
The apartments door frame is decorated by her freckled arms. As she stands there conversing with a guest, she has a firm grip on the door's wooden frame. The evening's many drinks have made her movements unsteady and have created a flickering gaze with heavy, decorated eyelids. She is in good spirits, and her high-pitched voice swings around the apartment.
Her long, black hair has deep, playful shades of purple, depending on how she angles herself against the dim light of the overhead lamp. She moves a hand through the long locks, which mess with an otherwise perfect centre parting. But the hair is heavy and in a split second it hangs back along her face. It has a fullness and length that makes my own short fairy hair look lifeless. It hasn't really wanted to grow since high school, despite several vitamin treatments and good advice, and so the hairdresser is also associated with dread and horror.
Hers on the other hand, her hair has always grown without a problem. And right now, the longest part is all the way down and touching the the small of the back. The hair conforms to her shapes, laying lightly and elegantly on top of two perky buttocks wrapped in a black dress.
It didn't look like that yesterday. Yesterday her body was naked and we shared it. Just as we shared mine. No dresses could cover up any body parts, and instead we were intertwined. Skin to skin.
It was a hot night, and her touch created sparks. She caressed my nipples with the tip of her tongue, while her fingers eagerly went elsewhere. It all felt amazing, and I shot my chin up in the air as I let out passionate noises.
Interruptions occurred only when she gently and teasingly panted against my moist nipples, where I would subsequently squeal and my hair stand erect on the pale forearm. Wet and warm, we made love like never before.
But tonight, those hot hours feel like a dream. I feel alienated, even invisible, without knowing what I've done wrong. She is still standing in the doorway of the smoky kitchen, so engrossed in conversation that the ashes of a lit cigarette falls to the ground unnoticed. She has turned her back on me and I am now admiring her long figure from behind, which has only grown longer thanks to a pair of high and very thin yellow heels. She enjoys being the life of the party and always makes sure she's a little extra. If there is a dress code, she deliberately skirts it. 'It's important to stand out,' she often says. I love it. She's got me in her web and I can't escape.
It's getting late and you can sense the room getting bigger and emptier as a new day dawns. I have seated myself on a chair in the apartment's dining room. In front of me is a long table filled with empty wine glasses standing on a red wine-stained white tablecloth. Between the glasses, cans and empty bottles, you can sense the guests' lack of concentration and restlessness in the form of finely torn paper, candle wax or cork stoppers arranged in small, delicate piles. As elegant as the evening started, it ended just as sloppy and drunk.
The leftover alcohol in the glass give off a sweetness and I almost wince. I don't like sitting among the last guests, sensing the sun rising over the rooftops of the city. Suddenly, i've become very sober. I no longer have the opportunity to make use of the darkness of the night to hide various insecurities, and I feel exposed.
I want to walk, but my body won't get up. I feel trapped in her game, unable to make sense of the rules. Yesterday I was the centre, and tonight I am invisible. Yesterday I was the woman in her life, today I'm a stranger. Yesterday we were naked and vulnerable and loved in a way that still has sizzling aftermath. I am deeply dependent on her and have no idea what to do. All evening I've caught myself being so uncomfortably anxious to get her attention that I haven't been able to recognize myself. Bad jokes, lies and wild attitudes, all desperate attempts to turn her gaze on me.
Someone touches my leg and I wake up from my thoughtless stupor. She finally registers my presence, and that automatically makes me happy. I should be insulted, since a cold shoulder has been turned to me all evening. But I'm spellbound, and instead I grab her arm. If I can have even a percentage of what I experienced last night, I'll be forgiving.
- Are you tired?
She asks me the question whisperingly and playfully, directly into my ear. Her body is leaning forward and a full bosom approaches my face. My cheeks heat up and I want her like never before. My rational pep talk about independence, well-being and standing up for yourself is dead and gone. Curled up and gone. She asks if we should go to her house while she pulls me by the arm. Last night is still so fresh in my memory that I just nod and follow.