Re: Venetian penthouse: Sam & Cris
Any age she'd netted was a long-forgotten blur, some hotel fucking fantasy lived behind bars in strapped white, and she'd been put back young and aged to twenty-two again, and here she fucking was, no better than the last time. She should probably tell him, but not now. Now, when she could barely differentiate between the bed's fluffy sheets and the cotton that filled her mind, and she knew it. It wasn't like she was oblivious. She wasn't some catatonia that didn't know she was unfocused stares, yeah? She knew. She was aware of it, just like she felt the numb as nothing and couldn't fucking stand it. She wondered how the women locked up forever could handle this shit. Lithium, she knew, and she figured it was safer sedation than the fucking real sedatives, at least for a junkie, because who the fuck would willingly feel this way?
As for love, she took that shit however it came. She loved hard, and she loved a lot, and she loved easy. But the kind of love he was talking about, that shit just left wreckage in its wake, and she was still dragging one dead body from her heartstrings. She was trying to avoid a second, yeah? She was fucking trying.
But she wasn't thinking about any of that as she sprawled out atop him, like a a dark-haired girl making snow angels in a bed of white, his shirt part of the scenery, and he was warmer than flurries outside the murky windows of a New Jersey tenement.
His fingers were in her hair again, yeah, and he hadn't done that shit much since it wasn't blonde. She reached back to touch, like maybe she was realizing something through the weight of pharmaceuticals, but his hand closed around king and fist, and she forgot her train of thought as it derailed.
"Nunca he conocido a un tipo como tĂș, papi," she said truthfully of his Barrio-boy declaration, his words about hearts making her cheeks go slow-red, not like when she was normal, but a slow climb against alabaster. She ducked her head as he tipped her chin, a tug-of-war of sorts, and she let him win, because he'd had a shit day, yeah? And because that devastation was maybe seeping from his voice a little, littered on the floor maybe, alongside that vest.
She closed her fist around the king, and she stretched against that bed of tan and white and warm to kiss him. It was a young girl's kiss, chaste or whatever, a press of salt-stained lips to his.