Finally, she's in bed. Feeling every bit of the day in her bones. Fatigue lines her hips, her lower back, her calves -- a leg session right after an eight-hour shift can do that. Soft rain outside, lush, soothing. She pulls the covers up to her chin.
She should be falling asleep before her head hits the pillow. But instead, she's fidgeting, eyes darting around the fuzzy contours of the dark room. Soft green numerals of the alarm clock grinning at her cheekily: 1:41AM.
A hand finds its way down between her thighs, just to keep her company down there.
Half-committed masturbation. The clock ticks over to 2AM. Buzz of phone next to her head. Here he is, right on cue.
She plucks her phone up off the bedside table, grimacing. Tongue in teeth, she opens the pic. Rush of dopamine, saliva in her mouth. He's shirtless in bed. Faceless torso, teasing pull of his boxers with his thumb. The sparse caption:
u up?
She throws the covers away from her chest, pushes her arms out, finds her well-rehearsed angle. Snaps a pic, sends it. Without delay, he returns the favour. Back and forth like this for a while. She pops a tit out, massages it, dares to capture it with a three-second video. He does the same with his shaft, planting his phone beneath his balls and stroking for her. Wordless escalation.
The better part of her knows this is all a mistake being made. Again. Getting too comfortable, too complacent.
As if he's read her mind, he starts slipping away. She can sense it before it happens. Thirty second gaps between replies stretch to two minutes, then three, then five. She almost sends twice to get his attention but manages to stop herself. Pulls her tit back into her bra, face burning.
After a while it becomes apparent he's vanished entirely. Not even doing her the courtesy of opening her last pic -- leaves it on delivered instead. She hates how long she spends next to her phone when it gets like this. How often she refreshes the app, closing and reopening it. As if somehow it's a technology error rather than the biting truth.
That he just doesn't care.
She laughs to herself. Runs her fingers over the pitted feeling in her chest.
How could she be stupid enough to think he'd keep going for once? The flakiness is the only consistent thing about him. Textbook, at this point. It's the same mid-sexting disappearing act he's pulled the past two, three times he's crashed his way back into her life. With that stupidly pristine waist, those slutty angles. Never one for talk, either. Any time she even hints at chatting, he just plays the same game -- going ghost.
Clenches her jaw, rush of self-sabotaging conclusions.
It's because he's got other girls on his phone. Prettier ones, actually worth finishing with. Useful for more than just warming up.
She bites the inside of her cheek. Tells herself the overthinking isn't helpful. It would be wise to just roll over, cut her losses, get some proper sleep after the day she's had.
But instead, she's flicking the lamp on, pacing to the kitchen. Returning with the bottle.
One rushed glass of wine, indulgently gulped down. Pours another for good measure. As if it can cleanse the frustration and embarrassment away. Keeps the bottle and glass by her bed as she crawls back into the messy covers.
Picks up her phone. Types as she drinks.
It's paragraph and a half, to say the least. Easily enough to get his precious attention.
---
With the fading alcohol in her veins, she's able to twist their brief argument in her favour. Into an invitation. Guys are easy, like that. Even the flaky ones like him.
Twenty minutes later, his headlights are cutting shapes in her curtains as he pulls into the driveway. She's changed into a bathrobe, spritzed herself with perfume -- roses with a trace of cinnamon. Hair up in a bun. Buzz in her lower abdomen from how quickly she's prompted him into a hookup. A touch of wine-steeped vitriol can work wonders.
She lets him in quickly; it's still raining. Loose fall of hoodie over his tapered frame, little sparkle in his eye despite the played-up look of disinterest. That fuckboy fringe, runs his fingers through it just because he can. She clenches a fist in her robe. He won't be keeping this act up for long.
The silence does the work for her. He starts to talk about the light fixtures, but she just turns around, walks on through. Forcing him to follow.
