Written by M. Taggart- Fiction.
Standing over the toilet, he held onto himself and wondered, “Why?” It was just last night he had told himself, no more. The bubbles grew and he hit them with a part of himself.
She was laying in the other room, in his bed. Thinking she was asleep, he opened the fridge door and pulled out a can of beer. The can echoed as he opened it and that was fine with him. He placed the beer down, empty.
He looked at his kitchen and thought, “I’m a failure. Look at this.”
The room was trying to spin, but he held on, settled it down and looked in the direction of his bedroom door. It was open. It looked dark, too dark for comfort.
She heard him relieving himself, with the door open. She listened as it went on for at least three minutes, but “How was that possible?” she thought.
She’d met him that night. He was very handsome and they’d had dinner, he paid, and now she was here. Naked and smelling his sheets. They smelled like him and she didn’t know why, but she wanted to keep smelling them. She heard another can of beer being opened and wondered why he wanted to do that.
He stepped past the kitchen counter, which caught his hip, and fell. The wood floor helped to slow his fall.
“Are you alright?” she asked. She’d gotten up from his bed and was now viewing him.
Smiling, wild eyed, and naked, he replied “I’m good.”
“Do you think they’ll be upset?”
“Downstairs? I don’t much care if they are.”
“That’s not very nice.”
“Neither is the counter, but who cares.”
“I care,” she said with a serious look.
“Really? Why’s that?” Shifting and lifting himself up, watching her, watch him.
“I care because it was loud.”
“And did you care when you were loud?”
She covered herself with her hands. “I don’t remember.”
“Let’s not bother with this. Want a beer?”
“I’d rather a water.”
“A water with Whiskey?” He asked.
“No, I’d like a water. No whiskey. Do you drink often?” she asked.
He walked slowly to the sink and reached into his cupboard for a glass. He filled the glass with water and turned to her, “I drink when I’m drinking,” and held the glass out for her.
“That’s lovely,” she replied and tried to be upset. He was smiling at her and his arm was reaching toward her. “He had a nice smile,” she thought.
“I’m not going to stand, and hold this all night. I think you ought to come get it.”
“Who talks like that?” she asked.
He looked down, at his floor, then at his counter. It was rustic. There was a coffee maker and a dish dryer on top of the counter. At the back of his kitchen there was a towel for drying dishes. He looked at the towel. Nothing was to see.
She watched him, “He’s not like anyone I know. He’s handing me a glass of water, but, I see a life,” she thought. She stepped closer, closing in and reaching.
She was naked and reaching, and he watched her, “Is this a first?” He wondered. She’d seen his kitchen and his kitchen sink towel. She asked, “Who talks like that?” and he looked again at the towel.
She stood, just behind the counter, enough for him to see what he liked. “He looked sad,” she thought. She wanted to smell him, his shoulders, and his cheeks.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Watching. I’m watching and thinking,” She replied.
Ahhh, more to come on this one. I think. –M. Taggart.
Note: If you enjoyed this story, you might also like my self published story, Don’t Be A Sally- Based on True Events- Which you can find on amazon and in your iBook store.