Title: Professional Daydreamer
Author: Michelle K. (CageyGrl@yahoo.com)
Challenge: amydonna #21: water & #25: Over the Rhine
Summary: The news says it's raining in New York.
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine. Don't sue.
Professional Daydreamer by Michelle K.
The news says it's raining in New York. She's probably out, her heels splashing in puddles as she holds an umbrella over her head.
(You wonder if she's thinking of you.)
You haven't gone to bed with anyone since she left. You assume it hasn't been the same for her. Maybe she fucks them the same way, with a lazy tongue and very sure fingers. Leaves them with a note. Calls back a week later to say her whole life has changed.
But, yeah. She probably only does the last part for you.
"I can't come into work tomorrow."
"Are you using the 'it's Saturday' excuse?"
Josh sighs. "You know what a benevolent boss I'm being. You should start calling me benevolence. With a mister in front of it, preferably."
"You're hurting my brain while killing my faith in yours."
You get on the train early in the morning. You stare out the window the whole way there. Penn Station is packed with people and there's a long line to get a taxi. When you're in the backseat, you start to wonder if this is the best idea.
You give him a neighborhood. He shrugs. Starts driving.
You walk aimlessly on darkened streets, raindrops pelting you as you go by her building. You're colder with each moment that passes, but you can't manage to walk over and hit the button next to the name Gardner. And who's to say she's even there? She could be at her office, at a new lover's apartment, eating lunch with a friend.
(You never think things through when it comes to her.)
You're crazy. You keep walking.
You enter the third Starbucks you pass, order an impossibly expensive latte drenched in caramel. The cashier reminds you it's hot, lest the warning on the cardboard and common sense simultaneously fail you.
"Thanks," you say before sitting by the window. It stops raining for a moment.
(But not for long.)
A few feet away, two brokers are talking about the market. One of them is making tortured metaphors involving the Tour De France. The coffee's no longer warm, but you've dried off a bit.
You're starting to wonder what you were thinking; why there was a part of you that expected to find the courage to follow through on your impulse. Ring her doorbell, throw rocks at her window. Have her come to you. There was probably a romantic sidewalk kiss dancing in the back of your fantasies, but you never really got that far.
"You pedal and pedal uphill. It's not easy."
You roll your eyes and swirl the caramel remnants around in the bottom of your cup. You should've called. Made a date. That would've kept you from chickening out.
Then again, you weren't sure she'd care to talk to you. You swipe a discarded Times from a table as you leave. You use it to hide from the rain.
You call Margaret on your cell as you rest under an awning. "I'm crazy," you say, and the connection is breaking up.
"I'm in New York."
You called her because she wouldn't have to ask why; she meets expectations. "Did you see her?"
"No. This... this was a mistake." That's when you see her. You want to run and hide, but the romantic part of you that drew you here takes it as a sign. "I'll talk to you later, Margaret."
She sees you before you call her name. She stares at you curiously. "Donna?"
You half-smile. "That's me."
"What are you doing here?"
You. I'm here for you. "Just decided to do some shopping. I was actually thinking about stopping by to see you. And here you are."
"Well, you picked quite a day. And without an umbrella." She quirks an eyebrow. "Or any bags."
"I didn't really get started yet," you answer quickly. "Where are you going?"
"Just on my way home." She pauses before adding, "I only live a few blocks away. Want to come up for a while? Dry off?"
You nod. She lifts her umbrella up to accommodate your height. There is no romantic kiss, but there's a whisper in the back of your head saying, "Fate."
She gives you a towel. Pours you tea. Says: "So. Why are you shopping here? Have D.C. prices gotten that high?"
You shrug. "No. Just... change of scenery. Thought it'd be a good change. You know."
"And you just happened to choose my neighborhood as your scenery?"
Your mouth hangs open as your transparent nature becomes apparent. "I'm sorry."
"You think I'm mad? I'm not mad."
"I should've called."
"I'm not mad."
"That doesn't mean I shouldn't explain."
She moves closer to you and tugs at the bottom of your t-shirt. "You should get out of these wet clothes."
You end up going down on her before you get out of half your wet clothes. One of her feet on the coffee table, the other's heel pressed into your back. Her stockings rub against your cheeks as her fingers dig into your scalp. This isn't romantic like your imagined kiss in the rain, but it is one of the things you missed.
After she comes, she slides down to join you on the floor. You unhook your bra and let it fall down. "Now," you smile, "you."
She smiles back as you watch her shed her blouse and bra. You pull her to you, your wet skin making her shiver.
"You want a tour?"
"Of my apartment." She points to her left. "That's the kitchen. This is the living room. To the right is my bedroom which," she takes your hand, "is where we'll end our tour."
Your jeans and panties are in a pile on her floor. Her shirt's slung over a chair. She hovers over you, elbows and knees pressing into her comforter. She slides a hand between your thighs.
You kiss her. Touch her. Mutter her name over and over as she makes love to you.
(Or maybe this is still just fucking.)
Afterwards, you both crawl under the covers. You circle her nipple with a fingertip.
"I don't want to go home," you say.
"Does it seem like I'm about to throw you out of bed?"
You didn't mean that and she's smart enough to know it. Pulling your hand away from her breast, you lie on your back and stare at the ceiling.
"Donna," she begins. "You can't... it wouldn't be fair to you to just move here."
"It would be if you wanted me here."
You realize how pathetic it sounds as soon as it falls out of your mouth. Somehow, you convinced yourself that being willing to change your life for a woman made you more enlightened than all the times you were willing to bend over for the man you loved.
"I'm sorry," you say.
"I'm not mad." She kisses your shoulder. "We'll talk in the morning, okay?" Her lips trail over your collarbone. She flicks her tongue out against your skin. "And, in the meantime..."
You shiver. "Okay."
(And if tomorrow you say goodbye, you can at least do it properly this time.)
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