This is written in stream of consciousness format. My apologies if the story is sometimes unclear.
They're just friends. Every time someone asks if they're more, she always shakes her head and laughs, always saying, "No, we're just friends." She never says she wants more. If she wants to be more than friends, she doesn't notice.
She does eventually. On that day. That God-awful day. The date is burned in her mind.
It starts out a normal Saturday. He's at home, doing whatever it he does on Saturdays and she's at work, revising and editing this new piece that's due in a couple days. She thinks he got bored, doing whatever it is he does on Saturdays and decided to change it up and bit. He calls her.
She looks at Caller ID and sees his name. If her heart beats faster, she doesn't notice. It's just the coffee she's drinking. She picks up, acting like she's slightly distracted with her new piece that's due in a couple of days.
"Hey," he says before she can say anything.
"Hey, yourself," she replies, glad that he can't see the smile that suddenly appeared on her face. If she realizes the stress lines that have been there all morning have disappeared, she doesn't notice. It's just the coffee kicking in.
"Are you busy later?"
"No." She was just planning on sitting her revising and editing this new piece that's due in a couple of days. But that can be done tomorrow.
"Can I bring a movie and dinner over to your place?"
"Sure!" she says. If she says yes more enthusiastically than she should, she doesn't notice. She thinks it's because she doesn't want to be alone in her cold, lonely apartment. Her roommate is out for the week; she won't be back until the next Saturday.
"Great; I'll be over at 9."
"All right. I'll see you then."
The cell phone is back in its usual place and she's back at work, revising and editing this new piece that's due in a couple of days. If her eyes flick to the clock by her desk more than usual, she doesn't notice. In a couple hours, she's nearly done with the piece that's due in a couple of days.
The clock reads 8:15. If her hands shake a bit, she doesn't notice. It's just the coffee she had twelve hours earlier. It's only stress.
If she drives a little more above the speed limit on the way back to her apartment, she doesn't notice. It's just the coffee she had twelve hours earlier. It's nothing more than nerves. Nothing to worry about.
She makes it back to her apartment before 8:30. Usually, she just sits in front of the TV with some Dr. Pepper and Chinese takeout. Today, she showers. She just had a stressful day and wants to unwind with a hot shower, she tells herself. It's not because he's coming over.
Her hair is wet and she's dressed in almost inappropriate pajamas when he rings the doorbell. If she hurries over to the door faster than usual, she doesn't notice. It's just the coffee she had thirteen hours before. Nothing special.
If she greets him more enthusiastically than she would another friend, she doesn't notice. He returns her greeting and if she's disappointed with the lack of enthusiasm, she doesn't notice. There's no reason to be disappointed. He's always like that.
The movie that she doesn't know the title of is popped into the DVD player. The food he brought gets eaten, though she doesn't even know what it was. She offers him a beer that isn't hers. He takes one, guzzling it halfway. If she takes one herself, though she hates the drink, she doesn't notice. She's just thirsty and isn't in the mood for a Dr. Pepper, she tells herself. If she wonders what he tastes like with beer on his lips, she doesn't notice. It's just the alcohol affecting her brain, her judgment.
Halfway through the movie she doesn't know the title of, he turns to her. If her heart starts beating faster because of the way he's looking at her, she doesn't notice. It's just the alcohol in her system. His hand finds it's way to her breast and kneads it slowly. She's sure he doesn't know what he's doing. It's just the alcohol.
They stare at each other for a while. The movie she doesn't know the title of plays on in the background, completely ignored by the two on the couch. If she leans into his touch a little, she doesn't notice. It's just... what is it? What can this be blamed on?
Then his mouth is on hers. She's kissing back desperately, hoping, praying she isn't dreaming. She knows her heart is beating faster. It's not the alcohol. It's not the coffee she took fifteen hours earlier. It's him. He's causing it. She's letting him because oh, this feels so good.
"Bedroom?" he asks, mouth barely centimeters from hers. His lips brush hers as he speaks. She nods and somehow, she pulls him up from the couch and into her bedroom. They fall on the covers, his hands touching her, sliding over her skin. She returns the favor, hands sliding down, down, down and she's touching him. He groans into her mouth, grinding into her hands.
"Yes," he hisses. His hands force the pajamas she's wearing over her head, palming her breasts. She shivers, half from cold, half from pleasure. Thoughts don't fit in her head anymore and she lets them trickle away. Thoughts like, "He's just my friend." or "It's just the alcohol." or "We shouldn't be doing this." slip away as she thinks of only him. His taste. His touch. Everything.
His shirt is already gone, lying next to her pajamas somewhere on the floor. Her fingers claw at the jeans he's wearing, trying to get them off his hips. She knows she accidentally brushes him when his hips cant forward into her hands. He laughs lowly at her, fingers expertly pulling at the button and zipper until he's wearing only boxers. They soon disappear, just like his jeans, thrown carelessly onto the floor. She doesn't even remember what his boxers look like. There's only him.
His hands touch her breasts again, but they soon slide downward. One hand lazily circles her naval, the other going lower, oh God, lower!
"Condoms?" he asks, voice husky. His eyes are almost black as he stares down at her. Blown pupils, she notices before her thoughts turn to the question.
"Bedside drawer," she manages, hoarsely as he fingers one, two, three! her almost roughly, stretching her. He leans over, rifling through the drawer that hasn't been opened in so long. How long? She doesn't know. She takes the opportunity to run her hands over his chest, noting when he shivers in pleasure. He finds the condoms and rips open the box, quickly rolling the condom on. Then he's over her, staring down at her.
There's no warning. No "Are you ready?" or "Are you sure?" or "Is this okay?". He's just suddenly inside of her, thrusting into her. She doesn't think he hears her cry of pain. She wants to hurt him for not stopping, not checking to see if she's okay, not asking if he can continue. But soon the pain fades and it's replaced with pleasure. She arches into his thrusts, moaning with him, pain forgotten.
"So fucking tight," she hears he groan into her ear. His warm breath combined with the pleasure of him being inside her make her eyes roll back. God. So good. His hands are back on her, stroking her. There's a hand in her hair, fingers roaming through the still-damp strands. His teeth are on her neck, biting her, marking her. She moans his name. She doesn't know if he calls her.
It continues. His hands, his teeth, God, his lips, are everywhere, touching her, marking her, pleasuring her. She touches him too, clutches at his shoulders, kisses him hungrily. How long has she wanted this? Far too long. He talks sometimes, but she doesn't always make sense of the words.
She screams his name when she climaxes. But he's not done. He still pounds away at her. Inandoutandinandout and GOD, it hurts! But it's such a good hurt. She doesn't know if he calls her name when he finally stops. Was it even her name? She doesn't know. He pulls out of her slowly, pulling the used condom off and disposing of it in the trash next to the bedside table.
His hands are slow as they touch her, almost lovingly, she fools herself into thinking. She curls up next to him. They look at each other, not saying anything, just staring. What will happen now, she wonders. His breathing evens out. He's asleep, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She listens to him breathe, thinking she can hear the movie she still doesn't know the title of in the living room. She should turn it off but she can't summon the strength to remove herself from his warmth. She falls asleep listening to him breathe, simultaneously listening to his heartbeat as her head is on his chest.
She wakes up first. She's cold. He's stolen all the covers. They're not even touching anymore. He moved the opposite way; she did the same. They're on separate sides of the bed, like there's a barrier right down the middle. She hates it.
What the fuck has she done?
She nearly jumps off the bed in her haste to get away. She silently runs to the bathroom and throws up in the toilet. She tells herself shakily that it's just last night's alcohol, today's hangover. Her hands clutch the sides as she heaves, rejecting whatever she ate yesterday. She refuses to think of the reason why she's naked.
A shower. She desperately needs a shower.
If the water is scalding hot, she doesn't notice. If the shower isn't really a shower and more like standing under water, she doesn't notice. If there's tears falling from her eyes, she doesn't notice. Everything is washed away under the water.
She changes into her everyday clothes. Jeans and a T-shirt. She sits on the corner of the bed and watches him sleep. He looks calm. His chest rises and falls evenly. She remembers that he's a pretty heavy sleeper. It doesn't matter. She'll wait at the corner of the bed until he wakes up. She needs to see him. She needs to talk to him. She knows she won't.
He wakes up at 10 AM. She's been watching him sleep for two hours. Her back is sore from sitting in one position for too long. She notices that he doesn't reach next to him to check if she's still there. It makes her heart ache somehow. She doesn't notice. He just sits up and gets out of bed. She keeps her eyes on the spot he just vacated. Then his hands are on her shoulders.
"Good morning," he murmurs into her ear.
"Morning," she replies like nothing has happened, like nothing has changed.
"I'll be in the bathroom." he says.
"Why don't you make breakfast for us?" he says as he leaves the room.
She makes eggs the way he likes it. They're friends, of course she knows how he likes his eggs. They're just friends. Just friends. If the thought makes her head ache, she doesn't notice. She just drank too much beer last night.
She makes breakfast not because he asked, but because she needs something to do. She doesn't want to think about last night and what will happen now. If her heart beats faster when he comes into the kitchen, she doesn't notice. It's just the coffee she had a couple minutes ago. Last night was just because of the alcohol they both consumed. Nothing has changed.
If her heart breaks a little when he never mentions last night, she doesn't notice. They're just friends, after all. It was just sex between friends. Nothing else. Not partners making love. Just casual sex. Just meaningless fucking.
The thought makes her sick.
He finishes off the eggs quickly, like he has to go somewhere. She only clutches the cup of coffee, occasionally taking sips. The coffee is bland, she notices. She makes no move to flavor it. They don't talk. There's no awkward silence. She wishes he would say something. Anything. He dumps the dirty plate in the sink for her to clean later. She doesn't comment. It's just one plate. No need to make a fuss over one plate.
"I should go. My boss will kill me if I'm late again." He doesn't sound apologetic, not to her. But he's smiling that adorable smile she loves and she lets it go.
She makes no sound as he gets his movie that she still doesn't know the title of. If she's sad that he's leaving, she doesn't notice. He has work to do. She still has to finish that piece that's due in a couple of days. He kisses her cheek like he always does, because nothing has changed. They're still just friends. They're just friends that fucked last night. She feels sick.
She stands at the door, watching him leave. If her heart breaks, she doesn't notice. She wasn't in love with him. He's just her best friend. If there are tears falling from her eyes, she doesn't notice. There's nothing to cry about. If her hands are shaking, she doesn't notice. It's just the caffeine. If she sits in her cold, lonely apartment, leaning against the closed door, crying to herself, she doesn't notice.
Yes, she does. She can't fool herself anymore. She lies down on her bed, on the side he slept on, clutching the pillow he used.
"I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you." she cries into the pillow, like it will bring him back.
If she cries all day because of him, she notices it all too well.
I love you. Why can't you see?