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I start soul-searching and you turn up.
So that's how it goes.
I picture myself walking into a late-night diner. Booths, no tables, and the lighting is dim. Smoky. There's a bar connected to the diner and most of the sound is coming from there, a band wrapping down its performance and the faint chatter of people talking, drinking, moving.
I'm walking down the aisle, bottle in one hand, laptop case swung over a shoulder, black leather jacket and black leather boots and red, spiked hair standing with more attention than I'm giving the few other diner patrons. I'm wearing a watch on a chain around my throat, tarnished silver. Keeps perfect time.
There's the usual on my heels. One's a boy, slender, good-looking, seeming to tumble forward rather than walk. All legs and arms and bones and big wide eyes. One's a girl and she looks lost, gaze always darting around, expecting something to happen or maybe afraid someone's going to tell her she's too young to be here, though a good look at her eyes will tell you she's more than old enough. One is still waiting near the door, a quiet habit, just now extinguishing his smoke and beginning to step into the building. He'll be here soon enough.
I can picture myself standing in front of the booth you're crouched in and a moment later there is no booth, no table, no seats, nothing around us, just the rough wood wall behind your back and my hands on your body, one at your throat, one capturing a wrist and slamming it up over your head, my knee driving between your legs to force them apart until you are spread and pinned to the wall. I can taste the sweat on your skin, the heat with which you swallow, trying to breathe, to keep yourself calm. Your eyes meet mine. Your free hand lifts...
...and there is a casual gesture, once more you seated, I standing, the table and benches in place, you offer me a seat and I can still see the sweat trickling down the back of your spine. You want, more than anything, to be shoved back like that. Pinned and trapped, for just a moment to feel that much passion.
You want to know what it would be like, to have me laying claim to you.
And your curiousity is spilling over into my dreams, every second of them. It's starting to color my waking life. Whatever the FUCK it is that has you walking this side of that particular line, fix it, bring it to heel, because we both know right now it's not like I could act on this even if you wanted me to.
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