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You stare at the broken glass, momentarily forgetting where it came from and what you should do about it. You seem to be forgetting a lot nowadays except, of course, what you wish you could.
The feel of her, the way she looks at you, the sound of your name sticky and rasping. These are memories that flow around your heart like the dark liquid which is making its way through the broken glass on the floor at your feet. You should be careful, you know you should, as you tiptoe over the mess you've created, but that warning has become futile to you in the past ten years. It was the same quiet counsel you gave yourself the first time you were alone with the governor's wife, just as it is the repeating message every time she calls.
You should ignore her, let her drift from you like she drifted toward you, steadily and delicately. She wasn't there, and then suddenly she was, and you don't remember what she said to convince you to give in to what you know was written across your features. No one can hide that kind of desire for long.
Yet, you should have known better. You use words daily; they are your weapons, your shield, and you consider yourself an expert, but she is a master superior to you. It is when she says nothing that her request is loudest and most demanding, saccharine in that she knows you want the same.
Therein is the problem because you do want the same. You want the weight of her resting on your body as you are hidden from shadowy figures. You want the closed eyes and silent shout of her climax in an effort to remain quiet. You want to be forced into heavy sweaters to conceal the red scratches from her nails on your back. You want to drink whiskey alone in your apartment after an encounter in an attempt to erase the taste of her. You want all that and more because you cannot accept the alternative.
Your world can shatter as easily as broken glass.
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