Too possessive to be a friend. Demanding to the point of being an acquired taste. He calls my name and expects me to come running. Even if I close my eyes and try to ignore him, I hear him and feel him. God, I hate that.
He never stays in the morning. That side of the bed is empty. Night time is his kingdom; he always likes me best in moonlight, the silhouette of me. Away from crowds. He likes me all to himself.
Touch like a marble floor.
I could sleep inside a hearse. He makes me so very tired, one night after another vigil night.
Tick the fucking clock. Night comes around again, and I dread the pointless bedtime routine. He likes me feeble, broken, weepy, delirious.
If only I could sleep.
Did she hear right?
The curtains are parted. It is naked black in the bedroom except for a slice of light exposing one hazel eye, the outline of his angular face. Clare knows how soft that eyebrow is to the touch, and how it is to be in the centre of that dark gaze.
Moving to the window, she peers outside. They will never be two names chiselled into a hill, hewn into rock. For months she wished she was that whisper of sunlight on his face. That and no more.
‘I’m sorry I’m married,’ Mike repeats.
‘I heard you. And so am I. Don’t be sorry.’