𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐉𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑⁰¹ʰᵉᵐᵐⁱⁿᵍˢ✓

⁶⁷something

luke

She is not an apparition; not a wish hazily dreamt at two A.M., or a hope to be broken and swept away. People like her, people who become homes to wanderers like me, are promises. Kept and never shared, held close to your heaving ribs, and hope they hold onto you in the same ardour you hold them.

My lips are still tingling with the aftertaste of her, and I find myself touching it now and then, a phantom of a kiss lingering ever so ghostly.

I still have the image of her under me burned through my eyes, my memory, and I feel my cheeks heat up every time I return to it. Hours later, it's still engrained front and centre, the plague for thoughts. I can't blame myself, it was a sight for my longing eyes.

Her morning cold skin still feels fresh against me, bare back against my chest still warming me from the freezing bedroom a/c system. She's still here, her luscious whispers now just an echo of a moan against my ear.

The morning wears her well, I notice this. Though, her hair dishevelled and the slight tendency for her legs to wind the blanket to herself, it didn't matter as much as the sole fact that I laid right beside her; still and observant with how her lashes would momentarily flutter, her eyes underneath glancing left and right, how her unclad chest would rise and fall with each velvety breath.

"I'm heading out to buy something, okay? I'm taking your keys," I whispered to her, hoping she'd have some slight memory of this after waking, or that I'd return and she'd still be asleep.

She, much to no surprise, didn't reply coherently, but rather in small mumbles of French that I didn't recognise.

Waking at the early hour of six wasn't to my choice — it seems that I haven't gotten used to the sudden time zone change — but I got up anyway and trodded to her kitchen, deciding that breakfast would be a great thing to wake up to. The only problem is that I only know how to cook pancakes and anything else that can just be placed on a pan and fried.

Her fridge overwhelmed me with vegetables and an odd amount of broccoli, so I resorted to putting on my clothes as though I was getting out of a one night stand, as quietly as I could, and am now in the grocery searching for the pancake mixes. Why are there so many? How many mixes can a person possibly need? It seems a little abundant.

As expected, the 24/hr grocery kept its timelessness, your sense of time drifting behind as though it doesn't chase after you in the real world. Bright fluorescent lights blink away what's left of my drowsiness as I take two Betty Crocker mixes just in case: one original and a chocolate one since the others just have fancy spice names that I'm not that familiar with either.

I stack them on top of each other on one arm, along with a toothbrush in a carton that seems to be really sold on making my teeth pearly and fresh for the rest of the day! if I use it with its companion toothpaste that will leave your mouth feeling minty and fresh for the next 20 hours!

I head to the counter and place my items on the counter, giving my card for the cashier to scan before walking out, time resuming with every step I take outside the grocery.

Letting the three items sit on the front seat, I drive back to her apartment building, the light starting to come through little by little through the buildings.

I'm reminded by yesterday's drive, feeling her hot gaze on me, and I had to look around to pretend I couldn't notice it.

In truth, whenever she stares at me for so long, I feel somewhat honoured and grateful that she still considers me physically inspiring. She stares at things for long amounts of time when she wants to emulate their figures and shapes down on papers or canvases, or if they've suddenly struck the chord of inspiration up in her mind — and being one of those things brings nothing but the slightest bit of pride from me and a whole lot more of admiration for her.