After The Morning Afters

May 3, 2016

She watched him get dressed. "You come here almost every night, make love—"

He cut her off mid-sentence. "Fuck. We fuck," he turned to her, smirking.

"Well, I feel loved every time we fuck. You call it whatever you want, hun," she replied, her voice was silky. She returned the smirk.

He made a face at her, unable to form a decent retort.

"So, why?" She insisted, her head tilted a bit to the left, the smirk re-appeared.

"It's morning. I need to get going," he won't meet her eyes.

"I'll change the lock," she intoned.

A harsh sigh escaped his lips, he stared at her in disbelief. He stood, she's taller by a couple of inches, she looked down at him, her own lips expectant, "You're my Scheherazade," he whispered, kissed her tenderly and left before she can answer.

May 4, 2016

"Scheherazade, huh?" She murmured sleepily against his neck. He felt her smile and knew she understood.

"Hrmmn?"

"So every morning you want to kill me?" They both chuckled, "Of course, not kill me literally," a pause. "That's why you leave? Why, you don't want to name this, what we have?" Her hand, resting against his waist, went tense for a few moments then relaxed again.

He allowed a few seconds to pass before answering, "I'm afraid," now it's his fingers' turn to tense, grasped her hip. "I don't want to want you too much," he caressed her hip and felt the marks his fingernails just made.

"Fucktard," she sighed, "You kill me, you know?" She kissed his neck, "Every time you leave, a small part of me dies."

"Yea?" He traced small circles on her hips.

"In a way, it's good," she nibbled his earlobe then whispered, "Every time you return, I am resurrected."

May 8, 2016

Panic seized him as he entered her unit. Everything was in utter chaos. A gentle sobbing was echoing throughout the apartment. He didn't stop to stare at the carnage but he recognized the gutted carcasses of his books.

"Hun...?" He briskly went to her room and found her slumped at the foot of the bed; surrounded by more torn pages; murdering A Murder She Wrote. Gripping the book tight, ripping the gripping pages into shreds. "Hey... hun..." He gently pried her fingers off.

"Where were you? Where were you? Where were you?" She whispered, words running into each other.

He gathered her withering frame in his arms, "I'm here...