Sweetest Venom
Page 6
Why?
Why?
Naked, I’m sitting up on the bed with my back against the headboard. I’m cold to the bone but I don’t bother putting my underwear back on. What’s the point? Clothes are a waste of time when I’m here because I’m getting paid to fuck and to be fucked. Besides, the cold feels good. It numbs everything.
I look down and stare at the unsuspecting man sleeping next to me as I try to convince myself that this is what makes me happy. But as I watch the night shadows dancing on his beautiful back, I know it’s all a lie.
As I continue to stare at Lawrence, I wish for another man’s kisses, my senses drunk with memories of a man who isn’t here.
Suddenly an idea comes over me, making my heart beat hard and fast.
I don’t know …
Trying not to think of what I’m about to do, I take one last look at Lawrence and get out of bed.
Ronan
Earlier that night …
DONE WITH WORK FOR THE DAY, I walk to my usual subway station and begin the commute back to my empty apartment. I nod at Joe, the ticket seller sitting in the booth at the foot of the stairs, as I take my wallet out of my back pocket and grab my MetroCard. I swipe it through the turnstile in one swift move and try to walk through, but it seems that today isn’t my fucking day. Instead of the usual “Go” appearing on the screen, it says, “Please swipe again.” I swipe my card angrily; one, two, three more times.
Please swipe again.
Please swipe again.
Please swipe again.
This is just fucking great. It seems that my day is going from bad to shit-tastic. For a short moment, I wonder if the universe is conspiring against me, or having a laugh at my expense. Probably both. What better time to kick a man than when he’s down.
Frustrated, I run a hand through my hair and realize that I’m taking out my anger on the wrong subject. I take a deep breath and, calmer, try swiping the card again. This time, the word “Go” lights up the screen and I’m able to walk through the turnstile.
A creature of habit, I go to my spot by the torn poster of a Broadway show and wait for my train to arrive. In this urban underground world where the air is humid and everyone wishes to be anywhere but here, I observe the people standing on the platform and wonder what kind of monsters they are battling. I wonder if they see me and realize that they are staring at the leftovers of the man I used to be. I doubt it, though. Who the fuck gives a shit?
As the train approaches, an image of Blaire’s black hair blowing across her face as she laughed at something I said while a different train sped by flashes through my eyes. Rubbing my chest, where my heart should be, I enjoy the numbness there. It makes it easier to breathe.
I find an empty seat. Maybe my luck is turning, after all. Loosening my tie, I recline my head back against the glass and let the familiar vibration of the moving cart relax me. And as tired as I am, part of me doesn’t want to go home. On a normal day, my apartment reminds me of her, but tonight, after seeing her for the first time in weeks, it will be a fucking nightmare. I can’t be there. I remember my friend Edgar mentioning that he had an upcoming exhibit of his paintings when I saw him the other day. I grab my messenger bag, pull out my phone, and send him a text as soon as I have reception again.
Me: Dude. Is tonight your exhibit?
As I wait for his reply, I look up and notice that a pretty redhead is watching me. When our eyes connect, she smiles at me sweetly as a faint blush covers her cheeks, looking all sorts of lovely. Nothing like the smile of a pretty girl to raise one’s spirit. I smile back and feel my phone vibrate.
Edgar: It’s tonight, bro. And your pretty mug better be there. Alicia is bringing her friend, that model from Victoria’s you banged last summer. Do you remember her? Apparently, she hasn’t forgotten about you.
Why?
Naked, I’m sitting up on the bed with my back against the headboard. I’m cold to the bone but I don’t bother putting my underwear back on. What’s the point? Clothes are a waste of time when I’m here because I’m getting paid to fuck and to be fucked. Besides, the cold feels good. It numbs everything.
I look down and stare at the unsuspecting man sleeping next to me as I try to convince myself that this is what makes me happy. But as I watch the night shadows dancing on his beautiful back, I know it’s all a lie.
As I continue to stare at Lawrence, I wish for another man’s kisses, my senses drunk with memories of a man who isn’t here.
Suddenly an idea comes over me, making my heart beat hard and fast.
I don’t know …
Trying not to think of what I’m about to do, I take one last look at Lawrence and get out of bed.
Ronan
Earlier that night …
DONE WITH WORK FOR THE DAY, I walk to my usual subway station and begin the commute back to my empty apartment. I nod at Joe, the ticket seller sitting in the booth at the foot of the stairs, as I take my wallet out of my back pocket and grab my MetroCard. I swipe it through the turnstile in one swift move and try to walk through, but it seems that today isn’t my fucking day. Instead of the usual “Go” appearing on the screen, it says, “Please swipe again.” I swipe my card angrily; one, two, three more times.
Please swipe again.
Please swipe again.
Please swipe again.
This is just fucking great. It seems that my day is going from bad to shit-tastic. For a short moment, I wonder if the universe is conspiring against me, or having a laugh at my expense. Probably both. What better time to kick a man than when he’s down.
Frustrated, I run a hand through my hair and realize that I’m taking out my anger on the wrong subject. I take a deep breath and, calmer, try swiping the card again. This time, the word “Go” lights up the screen and I’m able to walk through the turnstile.
A creature of habit, I go to my spot by the torn poster of a Broadway show and wait for my train to arrive. In this urban underground world where the air is humid and everyone wishes to be anywhere but here, I observe the people standing on the platform and wonder what kind of monsters they are battling. I wonder if they see me and realize that they are staring at the leftovers of the man I used to be. I doubt it, though. Who the fuck gives a shit?
As the train approaches, an image of Blaire’s black hair blowing across her face as she laughed at something I said while a different train sped by flashes through my eyes. Rubbing my chest, where my heart should be, I enjoy the numbness there. It makes it easier to breathe.
I find an empty seat. Maybe my luck is turning, after all. Loosening my tie, I recline my head back against the glass and let the familiar vibration of the moving cart relax me. And as tired as I am, part of me doesn’t want to go home. On a normal day, my apartment reminds me of her, but tonight, after seeing her for the first time in weeks, it will be a fucking nightmare. I can’t be there. I remember my friend Edgar mentioning that he had an upcoming exhibit of his paintings when I saw him the other day. I grab my messenger bag, pull out my phone, and send him a text as soon as I have reception again.
Me: Dude. Is tonight your exhibit?
As I wait for his reply, I look up and notice that a pretty redhead is watching me. When our eyes connect, she smiles at me sweetly as a faint blush covers her cheeks, looking all sorts of lovely. Nothing like the smile of a pretty girl to raise one’s spirit. I smile back and feel my phone vibrate.
Edgar: It’s tonight, bro. And your pretty mug better be there. Alicia is bringing her friend, that model from Victoria’s you banged last summer. Do you remember her? Apparently, she hasn’t forgotten about you.
