Re-adjustment Period
Grayson Crawford
Sort of a companion piece to Accidental Intermittent Roommates
She had been gone fortwenty-four dayswhen he first tried to replace her. He filled an inexplicable void she'd left behind with women that weren't small enough, or dark enough to really be anything like her. The right combination was just too difficult to find, apparently. Or perhaps, he'd gotten too picky.
There had been a brunette from a bar with too many curves.
A skinny redhead from a coffee shop that was entirely too tall.
One would have the right body shape, but be artificially platinum blonde, and another would have the same raven curls but with breasts that were entirely too large.
Regardless of their looks, they didn't drag thick, acrylic nails through his hair, either. Or leave mint-colored lipstick smears on his skin. They all took themselves too seriously to be beautiful to him; refusing to be too loud or too expressive as if they were self-conscious.
They didn't giggle with his cock in their mouths, and they wouldn't let him take their picture.
Grayson had too many pictures of her. Pictures of her smiling and pictures of her coming. Exhausted and tangled in his bed sheets or grinning on the couch, looking childish in one of his sweaters. Candid Poloroids and carefully developed four-by-sixes littered his desk and his dark room. He sometimes found them in his dressers or in the kitchen. She was a fleeting, but somehow reoccurring aspect of his life. Cackling loudly with a beer in hand, perched on a stool in his kitchen one minute, and gone before the sun came up the next.
He refused to say he missed her.
It was quieter when she wasn't around. He didn't find beer bottles littering his coffee table from where she fell asleep in front of the TV. He didn't have to carry her to his bed when he came home from work in the middle of the night. He remembered to take his medication. He reminded himself that he liked the quiet; that he liked being alone, and having the house to himself.
After thirty-two days he still wasn't eating right, still wasn't sleeping well. Lace was always the first to notice because she cared about him more than he deserved. She would bring him lunches and invite him to dinner. Invitations he would accept, even though he knew it was unusual, because he didn't want to make her worry.
"What's wrong?" She would ask, watching him, concerned, over the rim of her glass.
"Nothing," he would replay, with a careless shrug after forcing down another bite of a cheeseburger.
"You just seem really… off, is all."
He would shrug again, and tell himself she didn't know him that well, because he wouldn't let her know him. She couldn't possibly be able to determine if he seemed off.
Besides, it's not like he could explain that he missed someone that know else knew about.
And he refused to say he missed her.
After forty days his solitude would almost feel normal, again. He took his medication on time, and slept on the side of the bed he'd been keeping empty for reasons he couldn't comprehend.
He took another woman from another bar. She'd been closer than the others, but she smelled like perfume that was too expensive, and tasted like the wrong kind of cigarettes. She didn't talk enough.
Forty-seven days had come and gone. She had gone, but he'd not forgotten her, but he'd figured out how to go back to being normal. As normal as he could be, anyway.
He could sleep without the sounds of someone breathing, again.
After forty-eights days his doorbell sounded off in the middle of the night.
Grayson Crawford
Sort of a companion piece to Accidental Intermittent Roommates
She had been gone fortwenty-four dayswhen he first tried to replace her. He filled an inexplicable void she'd left behind with women that weren't small enough, or dark enough to really be anything like her. The right combination was just too difficult to find, apparently. Or perhaps, he'd gotten too picky.
There had been a brunette from a bar with too many curves.
A skinny redhead from a coffee shop that was entirely too tall.
One would have the right body shape, but be artificially platinum blonde, and another would have the same raven curls but with breasts that were entirely too large.
Regardless of their looks, they didn't drag thick, acrylic nails through his hair, either. Or leave mint-colored lipstick smears on his skin. They all took themselves too seriously to be beautiful to him; refusing to be too loud or too expressive as if they were self-conscious.
They didn't giggle with his cock in their mouths, and they wouldn't let him take their picture.
Grayson had too many pictures of her. Pictures of her smiling and pictures of her coming. Exhausted and tangled in his bed sheets or grinning on the couch, looking childish in one of his sweaters. Candid Poloroids and carefully developed four-by-sixes littered his desk and his dark room. He sometimes found them in his dressers or in the kitchen. She was a fleeting, but somehow reoccurring aspect of his life. Cackling loudly with a beer in hand, perched on a stool in his kitchen one minute, and gone before the sun came up the next.
He refused to say he missed her.
It was quieter when she wasn't around. He didn't find beer bottles littering his coffee table from where she fell asleep in front of the TV. He didn't have to carry her to his bed when he came home from work in the middle of the night. He remembered to take his medication. He reminded himself that he liked the quiet; that he liked being alone, and having the house to himself.
After thirty-two days he still wasn't eating right, still wasn't sleeping well. Lace was always the first to notice because she cared about him more than he deserved. She would bring him lunches and invite him to dinner. Invitations he would accept, even though he knew it was unusual, because he didn't want to make her worry.
"What's wrong?" She would ask, watching him, concerned, over the rim of her glass.
"Nothing," he would replay, with a careless shrug after forcing down another bite of a cheeseburger.
"You just seem really… off, is all."
He would shrug again, and tell himself she didn't know him that well, because he wouldn't let her know him. She couldn't possibly be able to determine if he seemed off.
Besides, it's not like he could explain that he missed someone that know else knew about.
And he refused to say he missed her.
After forty days his solitude would almost feel normal, again. He took his medication on time, and slept on the side of the bed he'd been keeping empty for reasons he couldn't comprehend.
He took another woman from another bar. She'd been closer than the others, but she smelled like perfume that was too expensive, and tasted like the wrong kind of cigarettes. She didn't talk enough.
Forty-seven days had come and gone. She had gone, but he'd not forgotten her, but he'd figured out how to go back to being normal. As normal as he could be, anyway.
He could sleep without the sounds of someone breathing, again.
After forty-eights days his doorbell sounded off in the middle of the night.
I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) I want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true) and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you.
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