HOME | DD

Description
Painful burning lightness. I groan and turn over, still in the grip of a dream that refuses to fade.
I remember the last images, like a vintage newsreel flashing in my mind. I am being strapped to a sturdy chair and can't move. My lover whispering in my ear, "I hate you," as the room crumbled around me to reveal the colorful world surrounding that I could never hope to escape to. I finally open my eyes after a moment to reground myself in reality and look over at him. He is still, and so peaceful looking. It is hard to imagine that he could utter those three little words. The morning light is tumbling into the room and cascades over his features. His lips are beautiful, soft like rose petals. They flow naturally into his strong jawline and adam's apple.
I yawn and sit up, take on last whistful glance at him and put my feet on the cold hardwood floor. I make my way to the kitchen and start the coffee, then turn on the television. The news is on. There was a shooting at on of the clubs in the downtown district. Four casualties. The familiar street is transformed by the television into something like a club outside of a club. There are bright multicolored lights flashing and people crowding around to catch a glimpse of the action. The news anchor comes back to the screen and begins a sickeningly upbeat story about some pregnant animal in a zoo.
I hear him move across the creaking floor on his side of the bed and look over as he rubs the fatigue out of his eyes and walks out of the bedroom. I turn and len with my back to the counter, "Good morning, handsome."
"Hey beautiful."
His lips brush against mine and when he heads to the front door for the daily newspaper, the aroma of fresh coffee replaces him.
"We should do something tonight. Like go out," I say. I don't look at him and get a cup of the gourmet goodness I got for my birthday.
He looks up from the comics, "Tonight?"
"Yeah, we havn't done much for a while, we should go out someplace."
"Where?"
"I dunno, what do you feel like? Maybe that club.. the Dragonfly, I think it's called."
"Whatever you want, hun."
"Alright, be ready by ten then."

The man on the screen gestures at the map behind him, high or low pressure something-or-other front. It doesn't matter, the forecast is for precipitation. I look at the clock that's usually three minutes late, it hangs on the wall above the television. It reads eleven seventeen. I roll my eyes and turn off the irritating drone of the TV. I sit for a moment to breath and close my eyes as if they could be a dam or a raincatcher of some sort.
"I won't let him do this to me." I tell myself.
So I stand up, check myself and stroll out the door.

When I get back to the house, he still isn't back. I lock the door and close the bolts. I even get the big armchair and drag it so that it sits under the handle. Satisfied, I stand back and smile, then stumble to the bedroom, kicking off my heels as I go down the hall.
I throw open the closet doors and giggle, grabbing at his shirts. I cradle them and savor his once-comforting cologne. The room seems fresher already. Waltzing over to the window, I hiccup and slide the window open with little effort. The cool midsummer night breeze flutters the curtains. I deliberate for a moment.
My arms move of their own accord, but not really conflicting with my own desires. The heap of white silk dress shirts glittered as they rain down in the night and settle on the already dew strewn lawn. It reminds me of the splatter of bleach I accidentally got on his shiny black shirt last month.

Exhausted, I collapse into the downy sheets. They puff up and rise around me with the force of my fall, like little bits of cloud. I roll over and stretch out my arms, I am free.

Description
Painful burning lightness. I groan and turn over, still in the grip of a dream that refuses to fade.
I remember the last images, like a vintage newsreel flashing in my mind. I am being strapped to a sturdy chair and can't move. My lover whispering in my ear, "I hate you," as the room crumbled around me to reveal the colorful world surrounding that I could never hope to escape to. I finally open my eyes after a moment to reground myself in reality and look over at him. He is still, and so peaceful looking. It is hard to imagine that he could utter those three little words. The morning light is tumbling into the room and cascades over his features. His lips are beautiful, soft like rose petals. They flow naturally into his strong jawline and adam's apple.
I yawn and sit up, take on last whistful glance at him and put my feet on the cold hardwood floor. I make my way to the kitchen and start the coffee, then turn on the television. The news is on. There was a shooting at on of the clubs in the downtown district. Four casualties. The familiar street is transformed by the television into something like a club outside of a club. There are bright multicolored lights flashing and people crowding around to catch a glimpse of the action. The news anchor comes back to the screen and begins a sickeningly upbeat story about some pregnant animal in a zoo.
I hear him move across the creaking floor on his side of the bed and look over as he rubs the fatigue out of his eyes and walks out of the bedroom. I turn and len with my back to the counter, "Good morning, handsome."
"Hey beautiful."
His lips brush against mine and when he heads to the front door for the daily newspaper, the aroma of fresh coffee replaces him.
"We should do something tonight. Like go out," I say. I don't look at him and get a cup of the gourmet goodness I got for my birthday.
He looks up from the comics, "Tonight?"
"Yeah, we havn't done much for a while, we should go out someplace."
"Where?"
"I dunno, what do you feel like? Maybe that club.. the Dragonfly, I think it's called."
"Whatever you want, hun."
"Alright, be ready by ten then."

The man on the screen gestures at the map behind him, high or low pressure something-or-other front. It doesn't matter, the forecast is for precipitation. I look at the clock that's usually three minutes late, it hangs on the wall above the television. It reads eleven seventeen. I roll my eyes and turn off the irritating drone of the TV. I sit for a moment to breath and close my eyes as if they could be a dam or a raincatcher of some sort.
"I won't let him do this to me." I tell myself.
So I stand up, check myself and stroll out the door.

When I get back to the house, he still isn't back. I lock the door and close the bolts. I even get the big armchair and drag it so that it sits under the handle. Satisfied, I stand back and smile, then stumble to the bedroom, kicking off my heels as I go down the hall.
I throw open the closet doors and giggle, grabbing at his shirts. I cradle them and savor his once-comforting cologne. The room seems fresher already. Waltzing over to the window, I hiccup and slide the window open with little effort. The cool midsummer night breeze flutters the curtains. I deliberate for a moment.
My arms move of their own accord, but not really conflicting with my own desires. The heap of white silk dress shirts glittered as they rain down in the night and settle on the already dew strewn lawn. It reminds me of the splatter of bleach I accidentally got on his shiny black shirt last month.

Exhausted, I collapse into the downy sheets. They puff up and rise around me with the force of my fall, like little bits of cloud. I roll over and stretch out my arms, I am free.