We’d gone to bed in the afternoon, but, as often was the case nowadays, I awoke to an empty room graced with no sign of when she’d gone. The covers were on the floor, but I was hardly surprised; it was just like her. She could be so engaging at moments, head thrown back in that carefree way of hers, peals of laughter escaping her slim neck. You’d think the world was suddenly right again and that this time, you could truly escape - just the two of you.
And yet, you couldn’t help but realize her other side - the one she never truly parted with. She was a careless whirlwind leaving behind silent remnants of her energy - overturned books, a haphazard pile of clothes, opened bottles of coke that were still full.
I lingered on the top step, a bit muddled still from our earlier exploits. We’d contemplated world events, fictional characters, mass suicide, the works of Hemingway and Heidegger while sipping strong bitter coffee and indulging on truffles and then we'd quickly retreated to our own niche of the world, content - or so I’d thought. Hesitantly I descended, almost fearful of what I might find. She’d gone away from me before. Too many times to count, actually. Yet, in the pause of my breath there she was - sitting in the pale almost-light of the still room, endless legs sprawled out on the coffee table. The charcoal-lace lingerie she wore hardly did her justice. Neither did the cigarette she kept bringing to her swollen lips, her hands visibly shaking. She didn’t see me. Then again, when did she ever?
male voice (I tried)