Benediction
Coarse, venomous words were exchanged between the two before he went to bed, that night. He recalled the sound of a slamming door, the very slight rumbling of the room, as if the earth itself was acknowledging and agreeing with her anger. She left the house in tears, he stayed in bed with a weak frown upon his lips, eyes narrowed up at the ceiling, not daring to look over at the empty spot on the bed. They'd had fights before, certainly. But none that were quite so rough, so heart-wrenching and leaving them in an unsure position.
For the first time, no exaggerations, no hyperbole, Eric felt cold in his own bed. When he was little, he was used to having the bed to himself, the warmth of a nightlight served him well. When he was a teenager, the nightlight was replaced by the gentle glow of a TV screen, and a light was finally replaced as he'd reached adulthood by the constricting, though welcome arms of Melanie, who squeezed into his back, her head nestled into him through the thin fabric of whatever tee he was wearing. She said it was his smell, and the fact that his muscled back was like a make-shift visor, protecting her from the cruel sunlight boding them awake.
It doesn't take a lot for an argument to erupt into a screaming match. Where the octaves reach new highs, and the eardrums rattle brutally as they try desperately to hear one another ---through the abyss of admonishment. He laid there, and now, with no light, having no strength and no motivation to push himself to switch on the TV, or the light, and no Melanie to use his back as her pillow, he shivered, and let himself fill with quiet regret. He stared blankly up at the ceiling, until the sorrow exhausted him enough that the darkness coloured in the beige above him. His imagination began to fill that solid canvas with depictions of their first night in this bed together.
He remembered that he had brought her back here on their third date. She was nervous about going to a man's house, a previous relationship had left her feeling cautious around men. But she was even more anxious about the idea of a man knowing where she lived, so this was a suitable compromise on their first date. She was so skittish, so worried about how the night would turn out that she couldn't stop talking, and that's where he learned about this. The words "Don't melt me in the bathtub" were tossed around, and a poorly timed "Okay, chopped up and dunked in the acid sink it is" was the response. She laughed, but it was the kind of laugh that lasted a couple of seconds, then went to an awkward silence, eyes darting around restlessly. He eventually sat her on the couch, unable to avoid noticing the fact that she was fidgeting with her fingers. It took him three months to eventually enquire, and they were able to laugh about it... sort of. That niggling fear in the back of her mind, though when he offered her the remote, her breathing slowed. She no longer felt as on edge. She trusted him, but there was something about that one, insignificant gesture that felt... significant. He'd picked the restaurant on the first date, he'd picked the movie on the second date, even the snacks they would eat. He did ask her, but she had felt too nervous to even say that she didn't like sweet popcorn. But giving her the remote control felt like giving her actual control, and while it wasn't world-ending, or something to get choked up over, it just felt good to know he wasn't going to dominate every single decision. That moment, they playfully argued over what to watch, they scanned Netflix, and Disney Plus, Prime Video for more options. He didn't specifically remember the jokes, maybe he felt like they were slathered in cringe, he was purposely filtering them out to save himself the second-hand embarrassment, but the reality was much more down to earth. The thing he did remember was that she had snuggled into him. He put his arm up around the back of the couch, he wasn't the fisherman, hoping that it might hook her in, but in that moment, she took it to mean he wanted her closer, and with remote in hand, she let herself use him as a pillow for the first time.
Fast forward a short while later, and what had began as gentle touches here and there, like toes in the water to test the temperature had eventually become her straddling him atop the couch, one leg slung over his waist, his hand rested upon her hip, their lips joined in a fierce brawl of intention. Eric remembered the feeling of not wanting to overstep, but the primal desire to pin this petite brunette down... even the fact that he began to notice her curves all the more, the way her shapely, voluptuous figure settled onto his musculature, her lilac skirt offering her little protection from the protrusion of his crotch, she was grinding against him. Through the fabric of his jeans, he could feel her own fiery passion through the thin underwear she'd wore that evening. They'd joke about it afterwards, he remembered them being in bed shortly afterward, clothes strewn over the floor, even the sheets had been slightly mauled in the process of what had to be the most intense sex either of them had ever had.
Just like he was doing now, he remembered the two of them staring up at the ceiling, panting from their escapade. A condom tied up next to them, giggles being shared over Melanie's eagerness. But that entanglement of cosy bodies, the delight in each other that they found that night... he felt himself swell at the thought of it. The natural urges of any man, the craving for his one and only partner. He jested with himself, teased about the possibility of apologising to her just so he could have her perfect curves in his grasp once more. Her left hip dipped ever so slightly, he only found that out when he came to realise how much she enjoyed being on top, his hands glued to her waist and hips. Her right breast had a freckle over it, and her abdomen had the outline of her dream womb tattoo; a butterfly flying out of a garden of curled grass and into a piercing star. He remembered the way she bit her lip atop him when he was hitting just the right spot, and he knew to go a little harder. If she'd release her lip, if her breathing grew staggered, and the tips of her hair delicately caressed his face as she lowered her head in a moment of absolute ecstasy, he knew she was about to have a mind-blowing orgasm. That was when he would go past the rhythmic thrusting, and let his primal urges fully consume him, allowing him to erupt into a wild frenzy of throwing his hips upwards into hers. Like a puzzle having found its final piece, he'd know she was finishing as she let out a stunted cry, a raspy exhale followed by a hushed expletive that crescendos into a screaming
fuck.
Indeed, their first night together in this bed had been a night of exploration, revelation, and understanding. But perhaps most of all, it was the redemption of their mutually scarred ego. That fragility that had been reinforced by finding someone they were so physically in sync with. He glared at his phone. Sat there, perched atop the nightstand, charging silently, preparing itself for the inevitably depressing phone call, the humbling he'd endure as he sobbed softly down the phone, begging, grovelling and letting her revel in his humiliating display. Though, as he played that scenario out in his head, he knew it was more his own musing, his own failure to contend with his emotional instability before his fingers crawled up the nightstand and wrapped around his phone, pulling it gently toward his face as the light from the phone blasted his eyes, forcing his lids to shutter over them as they attempted to adjust to the punishing illumination. For a few, awkward seconds, he wrestled with the most difficult question of his life -- should he apologise? Does he
need
to apologise? Was she at fault? Or was he the one who ruined everything?
"What?" He heard her voice down the phone, gravel in her tone, tears having shredded her throat, the warmth he'd heard earlier this evening was replaced by a cold, indifferent disregard. Eric's brain wrestled with itself, and in the melee, he found a question being fired out from his lips.
"Do you still like Turkish delight?" Silence followed. He thought she might hang up. She didn't. But the silence lingered, and with a laboured breath, she finally found her reply.
"Uh-huh."
"Why? It's like the ugliest, least tasty chocolate."
