For a Night.
By: addictdtowords for http://thesearethestoriesofagirl.tumblr.com
She turns to look at him, really look. He’s attentive, attractive, smiling with his eyes. Dark hair, blue eyes, the one combo that instinctually does something to her insides. Turns them to mush, weak knees and ridiculous flutters, and the heat. My God the heat could melt the arctic.
“Is it warm in here?” God that was stupid why did I say that? How can I manage to be this big of a screw up already?
He grins. His lips stretch across to reveal perfect teeth. He’s so hard to look at all at once so she takes in pieces. Dark hair. Ocean eyes. Perfect teeth. Permanent five o’clock shadow. The faint ripples of muscle underneath his black button down. Hands clasping his glass lightly as if he’s afraid it might break.
He moves one of his hands to hers on the bar. “Are you okay?”
She looks up from their hands “Yeah…yes. Can we get out of here?”
He looks surprised and she feels the need to clarify. “It’s loud.” And I just can’t take the pretense.
“Okay.” He finishes his drink in one swallow and grabs her hand gently. Leads her into the hotel lobby towards the elevators. She takes a deep breath and hits 4.
He’s still holding her hand and it grounds her. But instead of analyzing, over thinking, anything, she just hangs on tighter and looks up when she hears the elevator ping. The doors open and she walks down the hallway, pulls the key from her pocket, and opens the door. He follows silently. She sets the key on the dresser and takes off her jacket and shoes. He does the same.
She turns around feeling nervous. Second guessing. He walks up to her and cups her face gently. Oh so gentle like he’s known her for years, like in the morning they both won’t remember and both won’t be gone. It’s too much and not enough, this anticipation.
He looks her over once more and leans down. They kiss and taste cherries. It feels like passion and fire for some reason. She can’t remember the last time a kiss tasted like this, felt like this, made her feel…like this, anything. She starts unbuttoning his shirt and he feels warm from the inside out. Maybe it wasn’t her fire at all that she was feeling. Either way it feels good, it makes sense somehow.
Eight years old, my first camera
Clunky and black with a tagalong strap
Polaroid, it shined.
An audible click produces a frame
A memory tied to the kind of magic a simple photograph can provide
smiling faces stare back at me and now I know,
Memories can fall apart,
But fixer and film stay.
By: addictdtowords for http://thesearethestoriesofagirl.tumblr.com
