She stood alone in front of the bathroom mirror. Her large, voyeuristic eyes were like keyholes. Intervals of darkness beyond which two separate, untenanted universes lurked. The sunlight spilled shyly across the wet floor and she thought rather abstractly that it looked like torn satin. She reached her fingers into the light and wiggled them around for a moment. That something so gentle, so ethereal should have the power to burn her only enhanced her sense of mourning. How many times had she had her own heart broken? Love, she thought, is rather like sunlight. She felt as if she could never love again. Not in the same way, not to the same degree. Yet, deep down she knew that she loved him still. That she would always love him, not just as she did now, but more with each passing day. He probably loved her too. Someday, she hoped, that he would end her suffering with a confession.
She could feel herself shrinking into her pink bathrobe. She was shocked by the weight of her bones, by their implacability, by the way they held her in place before her own volatile portrait. That I should carry a cage inside of my very own body! She thought laughing out loud. Sometimes she forced laughter when she was by herself. She bit the end of her thumb with a shudder but reality did not release her.
She unlocked the door. Each room in her house had a story, a fragment of truth that under scrutiny caused some aspect of her persona to unravel. She was not naturally a tidy person, at least, inwardly she knew herself to be a mess. She was not particularly fond of white walls. She had no use for tiny tea lights or candles of any sort. If she ever lit them she’d forget them and the whole building would go up in flames. It was for this reason that she never bothered lighting the fireplace.
When she passed by her roommate’s bedroom she did not lift her eyes but continued on to the kitchen in search of breakfast. In an hour or so her roommate would leave and she’d have the house all to herself. She had the whole day planned. Cry. Exercise. Cum. Sleep. Repeat. She would think of him when she came. She would call his name with all the fierceness of a prayer. She thought his name delicious but she’d never told him so. The waves of orgasm would inundate/erode her senses. Her silt-heavy head would empty itself of all extraneous stimuli. For a few precious moments it would be just the two of them.
(don’t write so many short stories)
2 thoughts on “Wordle #452”
It’s written really well, Yves. I could feel the loneliness of the character.
I would love to see you write these pieces often.
Thank you so much =)