Charly's Language

Birthday Marathon

In the morning, when I woke up, she wasn't next to me. I got up, I was so sore, stretching my back as I looked for her. I crept into the kitchen. She was there but didn't see me while I was watching her. She was on the island, with a million books surrounding her, and her laptop opened in front of her. She kept writing, shaking her leg seemingly overworked. I wasn't surprised she couldn't sleep after all the shit she took. I was trying to find the right way to approach her, but she turned her head at once as she heard me breathing. I was going to kiss her, but I saw her bruised neck: I couldn't. I went straight for the coffee pot, turning my back on her.

"Hey," she said, walking to me. I reeled around and as she tried to hug me, I seized her hands, moving them away. "What?"

"Seriously?"

"What? Are you angry at me?"

"Of course, I'm angry at you. You jumped from a freaking building."

"It wasn't that high. I knew you'd catch me."

"It's not fucking funny," I ground my teeth.

"I'm sorry, okay? I just got a little carried away."

"A little?"

"I'm sorry. Come on please, babe? Look at me, I'm sorry."

I shook my head, and as she took my hands, putting them open on her face, pouting out her lip, she said:

"How can you say no to this face?"

I couldn't. I kissed her, but I stopped, my lip hurt.

"Sorry." She softly pecked me there again, followed by a kiss on my neck, and down my chest, she kept going down, she kept trying to make me feel better and put things back to normal. I softened of course, but not literally, literally, I got hard. I convinced myself it was a one-time thing, a wild night. Of course, we are not machines, there is no reset point. Once the line has been crossed, it is behind. There will be other lines to be crossed, everyone decides when they have had enough. We weren't there yet, not even close.

The next few weeks were peaceful. I thought she was also confused with the events; she went into a mellow mood. We'd just get a little high after school, but nothing more. Then sometime later, it was our birthdays. Hers was the eleventh of November and mine the twenty-seventh of the same month. One Friday in between I had practice until night. When I came home, she was waiting for me in the kitchen, her black negligee on, her eyes heavily lined in black, her lips dark purple, and her hair so tensely pulled up.

"Are we going out?" I asked, seeming annoyed.

"Well, I know you hate your birthday, and I know I've been a handful lately." I couldn't help the smile that she provoked with that cheeky smirk. "So I thought I'll make it up to you. Why don't you get comfy? Put your birthday suit on," she laughed.

I went to the bedroom, sighing at the thought of the likeliness of having a stranger in the living room. I put black sweatpants on, shirtless. I went back to find only her, sitting on the coffee table, pouring champagne.

"If you don't want to celebrate, I won't make you." She walked to me. "But I do...want to celebrate for you," she kissed my chin, and kept pecking my face. "The day you were born is my favorite day ever."

I grinned at her; she could really make me feel loved.

"How are we gonna celebrate?"

"Well, we have the whole weekend free, I finished all our homework, and it's raining. I think we should just...have a love marathon." As she said this, she squeezed my ass.

"Just us, in here?"

"Aha!" she smiled in my mouth, taking my hand, and leading me to the armchair. "Your birthday present is just me. Is that enough?"