Title: A Beautiful Piece of Heartache
Author: Michelle K. (CageyGrl@yahoo.com)
Pairing: Amy/Donna. (implied) Amy/Josh.
Spoilers: through "Commencement"
Summary: Moments in the affair. A series of drabbles written for tww100.
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Aaron, NBC, etc. Titles belong to Over the Rhine.
A Beautiful Piece of Heartache by Michelle K.
Happy and Free
Amy says, "You're cute" in a nonchalant fashion, yet you can feel the hairs on the back of your neck standing up.
"I..." You want to tell her that she's gorgeous; that you really do like her, despite what some may say. But both sound stupid, so you cover her mouth with yours. You tell yourself that it's this easy: just attraction sealed with a kiss. Because her response is to slip her tongue into your mouth, you feel relaxed. Maybe it is as simple as you and her.
You're not really that naïve anymore, but you like to pretend.
"What time do we have to go?" you say, though you can't leave for the party together.
"Six-ish. I like your dress by the way."
"Yours, too," you say, trying to lower your voice into something sexy. You extend your hand. "Dance with me."
She quirks an eyebrow, but complies. You don't care that you're dancing in her living room, that you won't be this close to her for several hours to come. You care that she looks amazing; that the dress that'll make everyone salivate is going to end up on your bedroom floor.
You kiss her. You feel lightheaded.
She pins your arms above your head as she kisses you. After she releases your wrists, you still keep them locked there. Changing position doesn't seem like an option -- unless she wants to change it.
But your hands don't seem urgent at moment; she's more interested in moving her tongue against your skin.
You can't say that you're upset.
She says: "Don't move." Then, your legs are being thrown over her shoulders; her breath is hot against your flesh; you're saying her name over and over, like you're begging for assistance.
You tell yourself that you're doing just fine.
If I'm Drowning
You like to describe your relationship with Amy in grand ways: she is the water and you are the sailor trying hard to traverse her choppy waves. It's bad poetry at best, but you still find it apt. She goes from morose to gleeful; combative foe to purring lover. And, sometimes, she's so opaque that you fear she will become a black hole.
You know you're mixing metaphors, but it's okay that your bad poetry makes no sense. You're in love. It's supposed to seem grand and beautiful.
You ignore the part that tells you another truth: love always fades.
You can't keep your hands off of her. When you're in public, you have to remind yourself not to touch. People might see. It's always "people," this general mass of wanderers, because you've convinced yourself that Josh's opinion doesn't matter. They're not together anymore. It's a non-issue.
But you still can't touch her. Because there's Ed. And Larry. And that guy...with some name. You're sure he has to do something.
"You nervous?" Amy asks.
"You seem nervous."
A lazy smile, then: "Okay. Tell Josh to call me when he gets back."
How Does It Feel (to be on My Mind)
"I miss you," you mutter, reclining on the overly soft bed.
"I miss you, too," she says.
You're pretty sure she's telling the truth.
You consider telling her you love her. Instead: "Can you tell that I'm thinking about you?"
"Tell? Oh. What, are you trying to start something?" she says, lowering her voice.
You weren't, but you also aren't sure what you were trying to get at. "Maybe," you say demurely. "Maybe not."
She talks dirty, and you're surprised that you can keep up with her. She tells you to think of her as you touch yourself.
"What?" Her mind is elsewhere -- you can tell...you can always tell with her -- but she still manages to say the word crisp and clear, like the problem is your diction and not her drifting mind.
"Do you have plans for tonight?" you repeat. "Maybe we could have dinner. My place. Some takeout. Other things that shouldn't be discussed in the White House."
"Sorry. Have to work," she says. "Things are busy."
You almost believe her, but something whispers: This isn't right... "Tomorrow, then?"
"Yeah." She kisses you hard enough to silence the questions. "Tomorrow."
I've Been Slipping
"What are you doing for the weekend?" your mother asks. You know she wants you to say that you have a date.
You do. Just not the kind she'd want to hear about.
"C'mon, honey. You have to be doing something."
"I'm going out for drinks on Saturday. With Amy."
"I've told you about her. She works for the First Lady. She's my girl--" You pause. "She's my friend. I know I've mentioned her."
"Maybe so. Can she set you up with someone?"
You want to slam down the phone. "I'll ask her," you lie.
"Show me you're not in love with Josh."
You kiss her, pushing her against the desk. You undo her pants, slip your hand inside. She's wet; turning you into a suspect has aroused her.
You undress her from the waist down and slip to your knees. She sobers up as your mouth descends upon her thigh.
"Someone could find us."
You raise an eyebrow. "Josh? Well, show me you don't love him." Anger's made you bold and reckless.
She's pleased and terrified.
"Show me," you say.
She opens herself for your tongue.
No one sees a thing.
Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander
You're not seeing what you think you're seeing. They're just standing close because...
Because he's getting ready to kiss her. You want to scream, let them know you're here. But maybe you have no right to be angry. Maybe you're the other woman and he's the one she loves. You're the affair.
You're the whore.
You bite your lip as his hand cups her face. She blinks and smiles as he pulls away.
She loves him. She's been lying to you this whole time.
You won't let her lie to you again. You turn, swallowing blood with your unspoken words.
Cruel and Pretty
The diamond on her finger sparkles in a way that bewitches you despite the fact that you know the owner and the giver. "It's gorgeous."
"Yeah," she answers, glancing down. She smiles. You have the urge to rip the ring off her finger and throw it across the room.
But that's not what you are to her anymore. Strictly platonic. After all, you were friendly before you were "friendly."
"I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't mean for--"
"I know," you lie. You want to bite your tongue until it bleeds itself of the desire to say such understanding words.
The Genius of Water
You slept with her again. Your boss's future wife. Your ex-lover.
You wish you could blame her, but you're the one who went to her apartment. You kissed her. You fucked her.
Afterwards she'd said, "We can't do this again." She'd looked ashamed; your visage matched.
You step into the shower, letting the liquid flow over your body. You rub your skin raw, trying to remove her scent from your fingers; gargle with soapy water to be rid of her taste. You pretend that replacing the aromas and flavors with new ones make them go away.
It just buries them.
What I'll Remember Most
She gets married in an off-white suit; a virgin-colored gown wouldn't have been right for her. You watch them as they dance, whispering mouths close together.
After the cake is cut, you stand up and propose a toast. "To the most beautiful couple I know. May you have many happy years."
Amy looks terrified even after you sit to a chorus of polite applause. You photograph it in your mind, vow to remember the time you finally made her feel truly vulnerable. Later, you use that picture to help you come as you wrap your legs around a stranger.
You think you've split into two people: the bright, efficient assistant who follows Josh around like a puppy; the dark, angry ex-lover who wants to make Amy collapse.
You consider letting that dark one out in Josh's presence; kissing him until he forgets that he made marriage vows; describing in low tones what Amy likes in bed as he fucks you; watching him realize that none of you are decent. None of you deserve happiness.
None of you have it.
But you can't be that person, so: you repress. Suppress. Wait for the cracks to form. Hope they don't.
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