The Space Between

Short fiction by yours truly

He takes the back of my neck with a wide, hot palm. I’m acutely aware of the rigidity of my body, the childish modesty of my hemline. He is electric, burning. I sit, silent.

If he is cocaine, I am catholicism. He speaks fast, somewhere between anxiety and suave charm, and I listen, lips thin, eyes wide. He touches me, over and over, wolf like for a reaction. If you run, animalism takes over. So I just listen to the ramblings of a fast man in this fast world.

He wants to fuck me. In his mind, I am against the wall, staring at him, a quick fantasy against the middle aged quotidian. But I resist, silent. Listening. Listening to university anecdotes, funeral tales, tall stories of famous ghosts. I might as well be a doll, propped up in public for his heaving ego, something to resist the slow humiliation of money spent alone.

How odd it is, for all my brittle ways, to love him. I love him in my listening, I overflow with words I am not bold enough to say, I ache with the hard sharpness of longing and worship.

But, for all that, I am the girl who didn’t fuck him.

He got bored of me, sterile of sexuality and ripe with desperation, the mystery seeping into disinterest. I am the saint, whore, mother and nobody all in one. I search for the man in the famous cocoon, the boy in the grown up suit and wide wallet. But he wants the mystery, as I want the truth.

And I still feel the wide heat of his hand and the electric of his eyes.

Written by

24 year old with an awful lot to say about everything. Opinions entirely my own. Usually. madelaine@madelainehanson.co.uk

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