We played. We teased, but it does not mean anything-- or does it—I do not know. Our relations should be compared to the lifespan of a drunken night, a tequila bottle. She was a wild child, getting drunk to numb the pain of her recent break up. Now, I do not go this route, but her childish behaviors draw me towards her; I have this fascination to become her friend. We played a card game; she wanted to fuck me over. Keep in mind, however, she was already drunk. She burned me with cigarettes before, horribly, as did I. We played too much.
I’d ask to sleep with her, literally lie down and sleep that is all. She agreed, but of course, she attempted. There is something about a woman initiating touch that is so organic. I’d tell her.
“Why?” She always questioned me.
“Just Lay.” When she began to get comfortable, I switched off the lights. Rather than immediately laying adjacent to her, I got on top of her. We play too much.
I stared into her eyes, felt hints of her breathing. Slowly, I drew myself closer to her face, forehead touching forehead. I smiled. As I felt her face draw towards mine, I immediately rolled over next to her.
“Don’t you want to sleep comfortably?” She turned facing me.
“I like to sleep in my clothes. I am comfortable.” I moved the strands of hair on her face and traced her face with my finger, touched her lips, and held her hand. Our legs intertwined.
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