...A Continuation of 'On The Court'... &...'Off The Court'... Part 12
The Court is Settled?
by moanalo
~~~~ The Day After the Match ~~~~
I am laying on my bed fully dressed, just staring at the ceiling watching the overhead fan slowly spin. I stretch out tying to reach for the four corners of the mattress, the stretching feels good although I am in a lot of discomfort. I intended to stay like this all day because my body hurts so much, I need to rest. Getting dressed was a painful effort. But I can't stay like this, resting that is, because I have a visitor coming over. That is why I am dressed and not sleeping in bed, recovering like I want to.
A lot of Tylenol and Motrin seems to ease my suffering, some. The pain is beginning to dull, but mentally I am still badly shaken by yesterday's fight. The visitor in question? Monique, of course. Who else would it be. The woman can't seem to leave me alone. She texted me very early asking if she could come over to 'settle up' regarding the video. Whatever the fuck that means. At this point, I no longer really care about the damn video, or what she meant by the 'settle up' text. 'Sure' is all I responded. Again, why can't she just leave me the fuck alone? A strange part of me doesn't want her to leave me alone, admitting that, even for a second makes me feel some amount of deep sorrow. How odd.
My brain is switching off and I am about to drift off to sleep when the knock at the door jolts me awake.
"Damn it! Where does the time go?"
"Oh Lord." I moan trying to sit-up, the pain as I start moving is unreal.
From the second I open the door a somber mood descends, coming from both of us. Almost like someone has died? Very strange. I can't figure all of this out and I don't want to. I am afraid to.
I step back to let her in while we avoid one another's gaze. Truly, we actually avoid looking at one another, I did not expect this sudden awkwardness. Monique's depressed state I initially chalk up to her being on the losing end of our match. Oddly enough, I don't feel like I won. Truly I feel horrible physically and emotionally. And well, I guess we both feel like shit from beating the crap out of each other. If these are the results of our 'so called' wrestling match, I hate to consider the outcome of a 'real fight' between us. Probably both of us in the Hospital?
I try to force myself to walk without a limp, but not entirely successful. She has a noticeable limp as well, so good, I guess we are equal. Well, not good, but just some juvenile tit-for-tat attitude on my part. I take a seat back in my chair, at my desk, but have to brace my arms against the armrests because my legs hurt so bad, scratch that, everything hurts so bad. She remains standing with a backpack in her left hand, hanging by her side, not sure what that backpack is all about. We did not prearrange our attire, but it was almost identical. Faded jeans and tee shirts. Clearly showing our athletic bodies. Being that our legs are very muscular, the jeans are tight, and our faded tee-shirts clearly show off our toned upper bodies, and our ample breasts. She is not wearing a bra, but neither am I, our painfully firm nipples make that evident enough. But the reason for a lack of bra has everything to do with extreme soreness in our breasts from yesterday's tangle. At least that is my reason for no bra, but I would wager money it is also 'her reason' as well.
But lets not get into that too much right now, looking and admiring our sexy bodies is not even a serious consideration right now. At least not when you feel like crap.
When I do force myself to look up and focus, the signs are evident of pronounced swelling on parts of Monique's face, and a couple of cuts on her lips. My face has some swelling as well, and a cut-or-two on my lips. Nothing severe, but smiling or laughing, or anything similar would open up the cut and bleed some. Our staring doesn't last long, she looks back down at the ground, as if she is uncomfortable being here and at a loss of words. Which is a first for Monique. I proceed to rub my palms nervously over the tops of my jeans. When she still seems lost in a daze I decide to speak up...
"Let's sit over by the window. Do you want some water?"
"Yes, some water, thank you." Monique says in a very monotone voice, that is almost soft. The striking thing? What is missing; No attitude...no immediate mention of yesterday, or the outcome of the fight. Just this weird, uneasy, awkwardness. There is even a level of politeness between us. I did not know what to make of any of this.
With a glass of ice water in each hand I go to place them on the table top, and then pause. I quickly return to the kitchen, get the coasters, place the coasters on the table, then return with the glasses. I don't want rings of water on the clean glass table. Monique is quietly watching this with a strange sense of...uhm...amusement? Well whatever, I have rituals that must be performed. Now I can sit down. It is a small sofa that can comfortably seat two, she sat down on my right and places the backpack on the ground. She takes several gulps of water while I play with the water sweating from my own glass. See! Potential water stains! Thank God for coasters.
Very deftly she fishes out a laptop and places it on the table.
The not talking and the lack of eye contact is making this entire moment very odd, and I am getting freaked out a little. Like we have never met before and have zero history between us. Monique then reaches into a side pocket of her bag and pulls out some chapstick, "Sorry, my lips hurt."
"It's fine." No, everything is not fine. My voice seems lost and comes out only in a whisper, I keep looking down at my lap, my palms face down on my knees. And now I am starting to feel very nervous indeed. I am not sure what is going on with me. I tilt my head up and face out into the small room, but my eyes pivot to my right, to look to the side. I do this so I can watch her rub the stick lightly over her bruised lips. My heart and chest swell. My reaction is not appropriate! And I look straight ahead again.
Right before she was ready to put the cap back on, she pauses, and made the faintest of gestures, "Would you like some?"
I never even hesitate. My right hand moves, as if controlled by some foreign entity, "Thank you." I squeak out. Gently I touch the tube above her fingers and then bring it over to my lips. It felt so good on my lips, 'vanilla frosting' flavor, my favorite. "Thank you again." I hand it back to her. We careful avoid touching each other's hands.
Now she gets down to business. Thank God. Let's get this over with. I take a deep breath and try to relax, just focus on being the neutral observer. Except for typing in my wi-fi password, I just sit in silence. She then double clicks on an icon which went into her Google Drive, she logs in, pulls out her cell phone for a 2-factor authentication code. Still, I am just trying to watch as some neutral party here, afraid to say or do anything. My brain feels like it is spinning, and now wobbling. I have to scratch my nose but I don't even want to do that, still afraid to move.
Monique sits back, straightens-up and places her hands on her knees, and then takes a deep breath. She seems almost ready to speak but then swallows hard and her eyes get a little glassy. Uh-Oh...what is coming now? Her long, sexy neck, with those strong muscles, they tense and flex, she appears to have to force herself to turn and look at me. I too have to force myself to look into her dark brown eyes, waiting.
"You won fair and square. You are the..." She clears her throat, "...the better, stronger woman."
My eyes dart off back into the empty room, not really processing what she just said. Not feeling comfortable for some reason. I stiffen a little. "Thank you..." I suddenly feel embarrassed, "...for saying that." I quickly glance back at her and blush. We both look away again. More awkwardness ensues. Hands rubbing over my jeans, and my fingers scratching at my knees.
I so badly want to tell her how I don't feel like the stronger, better woman. As far as I am concerned, she is still this amazing powerhouse of female strength...but that...that might appear, weak? And something tells me it would be an insult to Monique to appear weak. Does that make sense?
Back down to business. She reaches down and angles the laptop toward me and points at the screen, "There is the file, just right click and delete it." Monique doesn't look at me, just gestures toward the laptop. I sat staring for a moment. Maybe this is her way of showing me, proving, that the video is actually deleted. All this formality over some stupid video. Seems so strange now. No matter, I lean over and delete it.
"Now, go over here, and click on that 'Trash' folder. The file is there, you will need to delete it again and confirm you want to permanently delete it."
For some reason I hesitate and she notices this. But I eventually lean forward and permanently delete it. "They say, once it's on the internet, it's there forever." My attempt at humor. But neither of us laugh.
"Thats what they say." She says in similar serious tone.
I lean back, still sitting up straight. "Do you have a copy saved somewhere else on your laptop?" I ask while looking straight ahead, still afraid to directly engage her in anyway. Monique hesitates and then I glance over. She remains staring down but at nothing in particular. From the side view I get a good view of her strong model like features, perfectly straight nose and chin.
"Yes." She softly says and leans forward, her fingers moving toward the keyboard.
"You don't have to delete it, if you don't want." I nervously rub my hands over my jeans again, I need to stop doing that. "Just, you know, keep it to yourself from now on. No more file sharing." I am watching more closely now, peering up at her, Monique reaches for her glass to take another sip. Gently placing it on the table.
"Do you have a copy saved?" She asks me, never looking at me.
I blush so hard and look down, give a shrug. "Yeah, just wanted to make sure it was the entire video. I don't know why." I stop talking, that excuse sounds stupid. I clench my fists nervously instead of rubbing them on my jeans.
