this was not an over-reaction. just a passionate one. he had told her that he was seeing someone new. that they were over. she'd hung up at that point. who really needs to hear more? but he needed to say more, to meld it into her heart and mind that she was not the object of his desire.
well enough. he'd driven up a moment ago. she could always tell the way he squealed around the corner at the top of the block. no reason to, he just would. maybe it's likend to the guys with the crusher handshakes--a show-offy over-compensation thing. that would make sense with him.
she heard the squeal as she'd exited the tub. still pink and dripping footsteps across the livingroom. her bedroom blinds were half open. she'd pulled them back earlier to watch an incoming storm. the electricity still glinted in the air. candles lit her room. that the only light inside.
and the flick of his lighter outside. he hadn't reached the door. he'd caught sight of her through the shades first and lingered. maybe he was stalling. or maybe he was watching. regardless, she languished in an aphrodite mentality. she was the embodiment of love and passion and fertility. maybe it was knowing that he was out there, or maybe it was the goddess herself filling her with this strength and beauty.
she sat cross-legged on the bed, bolster by pillows or scarlet and wine. she picked a book from the nightstand. kafka. and she read. book open on her intertwined calves, wet hair falling in gentle waves over her breast. she smiled. turned on her side, her back to the window and read her book.
an hour passed before she heard the squeal around the corner again. it was quieter this time. a disappointed disillusioned squeal. more a timid squeak. she read another hour and fell asleep contentedly, still feeling beautiful, strong, and loving.
he wouldn't call again. afterall, what would a man dare say to a goddess?
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