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Cycle
It's a never-ending cycle- he visits, he leaves. She's more or less used to it now.
He comes alone in the dead of night, parks his black Impala at the now deserted parking lot of the rundown bar, and heads on inside, making his towards the young blonde behind the counter. He greets her with a pick-up line accompanied with his trademark smirk.
She says something; raises her eyebrows from time to time, clearly trying to hide shock.
He sighs in response, remnants of the smirk now long gone. He runs a calloused hand through his hair and he mutters something in a low voice.
She shakes her head and backs away, clearly irritated. She starts to raise her voice.
He matches his tone with hers, his usually smooth voice ladled with impatience.
She promised herself last time that she wouldn't take his bullshit the next time, and she tries to do just that- a monosyllabic reply, a shake of the head. She tries to make her way past him. He grabs her wrist as she tries to walk away. She stops in her tracks; turns around. He whispers something in her ear.
And before you know it, they've begun what they've both sworn not to start. One peck of her mouth on his, and the ball is rolling. Affectionate, nimble and quick. He wants it just as much as she does. They carry on until both are out of breath, groping, feeling, desperate, longing. He suggests something, and she nods. They head off to her bedroom to call it a night.
It is now barely just the crack of dawn, their bodies entwined, her soft silky hair strewn across his chest, his strong arms wrapped protectively around her small frame. Both are groggily aroused by his ringtone; he frantically answers the call, while she looks on, anticipating.
A short exchange of words, a concerned expression, and he hangs up.
He looks at her with blazing eyes, speaks, hesitates, and speaks again.
She raises a sceptical eyebrow, clearly upset. An accusation is thrown his way.
He glares daggers, throwing one straight back.
The peaceful morning has now escalated into a heated argument, a yelling competition, a blaming competition, and occasionally, a beer bottle throwing competition. His brother, her father, his loyalty, her ambition, all thrust into one dispute.
Then suddenly it's silent- silent to the point of being eerie. She shuts down, refuses to talk any longer. He, too, feels that arguing is now pointless; the blame game being played out to the point of exhaustion. He sighs, mutters a reluctant departing salutation, and promptly leaves the building. From the window she watches as he hastily gets into his prized Impala and speeds away from her yet again.
And that's how it goes, time and again.
She watches him leave, watches him come and go, as if she were some one-night-stand.
This is nothing out of the ordinary- she's used to it.
Really, she is.
So ...
... why is she crying?
end.
A/N: Thanks for reading :) Oh, and I would greatly appreciatesome reviews :)