Rain, Hot Chocolates and Mockery

I take in the smell of hot chocolate; I close my eyes and gather the strength to collect memories and replay what was. Slowly my chest rises as I try to suck enough breath. With my throat bobbing, I aimlessly blink as if trying to mock reality into a challenge under the question: Can you change under the snap of an eyelid?

I let my breath loose like a swimmer from a deep dive. Disappointed.Some things really don't change.

***

Somehow, I have learned to not hate Mondays. To not put such anger into something you don't have power over. But that didn't make me love them either. Neutral. Just neutral. Just.

Just.

"It's just another day," he says while combing my hair with his fingers. His hand trails along with my jet black strands stopping at my widow's peak. He knows I hate that. I shoot him a narrow glare and close my eyes. I feel my cheeks burn from his gaze.
I slept with him. My chest tightens as I slowly collect fragments from last night's fuck. I sigh and he notices the change in my expression.

"Are you OK?" I hate that. I don't like the idea of checking if someone's alright when you already know every bit of the answer there is. It's like mocking. I hate it when someone mocks me. Somewhere in the world, there might be someone being asked with the same question this very second, and his-- or her-- response might be totally different; he-- or she-- might like the tone of someone checking if they are doing OK and takes pride in that. I don't and I can't help but think if he-- or she-- is also thinking if there's someone somewhere being asked with the same question and loathes every second of it. Like they exist in parallel universes where the other suffers and the other takes pleasure in another's dreading.

Maybe it's always like this: the hate, the self-loathe and sense of stupidity that eventually surfaces, questioning every decision you carefully made before stepping the line you've been staring at for hours and hours-- to cross or not to cross.

Maybe the world has already arranged for every living soul the sensation of being less of a human, after submitting to someone you've been wanting for months and maybe craving since the very beginning, only that you don't know yet how to crave and have not learned the power in the words every time we speak of "want." The emotion of regret in where the irritating punch-in-the-gut of idiocy hides in every rough surface surprises you like a marathon runner having been finished the race and informed that it was not over yet and he has another-- or a hundred-- laps to run. Challenges presented only right at the moment when you have no energy left in your thighs and all you can afford to mouth is a curse but then you still endure.

"Hey, are you OK?" Another. I flinch at the assertion and get out of bed for coffee, for anything. Anything that I could use and walk away to just to dodge his questions. Just to.

What now? After months of wanting him and nights of lusting, every stroke of fiber in his muscles have finally led to this. I mentally slap myself for being a horny douchebag.
Somehow, I wish to take everything back: my moans, my kisses, my saliva in his mouth, his in mine, my cum, my virginity. Had I known this would be the end table, I never would have placed my bet. I mentally slap myself again for risking all my money on the table and for not having calculated the risk as it turned out to be far greater than my chance of success. Or perhaps, I already had known well the outcome and had convinced myself that any prospect of success will never be enough as long as I don't sabotage myself into thinking "anything is nothing if not shared with you."

***

It is a rainy night. You pour me hot chocolate. I cup the mug with both palms and pretend to feel the heat as I sit there soaked with rainwater. You smile to me as you pour some for yourself.

I'm drunk, you're not.

You walk to your room and come back with a blanket and in your mouth a curse about how the weather ruined our plans.

"What? Is it bad?" You ask me  with your mouth twitching left to right, trying to ridicule the situation. Carefully, you cover my shoulders with the blanket and I shake my head and smile timidly.

A thunder cracks overhead and the next thing I know is that you have your arms around me and I have my eyes closed. I can feel your jaw against my neck and your breath on the back of my earlobes.

You tighten your embrace and never in my life have I pleaded for time to stop. For everything to play on perpetual replay; for me to cherish something I am not meant to. I gather enough air as a 'thank you' gift to my lungs for not giving up because I know every moment that the chance of me collapsing is more than possible.

"Your drink's turning cold," You whisper. Then, a pat on the back as you walk away.

A mock.

Troy Teesli is a student and a freelance writer based in the Philippines. For comments, requests and suggestions, feel free to reach him at [email protected]