you have overstayed your welcome ;)
THE WINDOW’S been left open, letting in the December chill that steals away what heat he’s gained, turning sweat into icy trickles against his skin. Twenty stories below is a city that beats on, bright and shining in a pattern of blinking obnoxious light. But the streets are empty and the city sleeps. The clock on the bedside reads a quarter after two and even now he has no intention of going back to his bed. Night is only a formality for people like him. People like her. They’re both creatures who thrive best in the shadows like roots of nightshade and narcissus and asphodel, spreading and tangling into the spaces around them, pushing and CHOKING the world.
He’s already up, buttoning up his a dress shirt that’s still crisp and clean, not a wrinkle to be had despite the abuse it’d seen earlier. Behind there’s a whisper of silk, she’s as light and nimble as the spider she takes after even when he’s felt the firmness of her body, where all softness had been chiselled away by another sculptor’s hands. She’s as cold and unfeeling as the marble effigies of a mausoleum and touching her had been as pleasurable as running his hands against a gravestone on a winter’s night.
But there’d been something in those golden eyes of hers, a kindling light that shone with a predatory gleam and he’d returned it with a dangerous smile of his own. This had been a different hunt. A different thrill. He tugged at the cuffs of his sleeves, the angry red lines hidden from sight though he’ll still be feeling their sting for days to come.
“You can relax.” He shrugs on his jacket and smooths down the front. The window and it’s view have lost it’s appeal and now he’s looking into a mirror that hangs beside the closet. In that dark reflection he can see her slinking on the bed, red sheets wrapped around her body. Her dark hair’s free and loose, spilling down her shoulders. There’s a novelty to seeing this side to her, but he thinks he prefers it when she wears her hair up.
Beside the clock is his wallet stuffed with a few hundreds and nothing else that he’ll leave behind. It’s doubtful she’ll even touch it, but actions have always spoken LOUDER than words.
“I don’t plan on staying.”
