Vicariously Yours,

Whettingly Supplying

The sharp fall of the sun fell directly on Isabella's eyes as she flinched from it. Her window was naked without the curtains that usually were drawn over them.

Her head ached as she got up, moaning her displeasure.

Cold. She felt cold. Looking down at the measly blanket she covered herself up with, she rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms. Stretching her arms up, satisfied to hear the cracks in the right places. She pushed the blanket off her, her legs slid down, touching her bare feet on the cold wooden floor.

She swayed her way to her bathroom, doing her business in a half-sleepy awareness. Flushing the toilet, she stood in front of the mirror, seeing her hair dazzled and unkempt. Her eyes had somehow sunken in their respective holes. Her mouth parched and bitter.

The thing about mornings are-there are some good ones and bad ones. Some are like you bounce up with a feeling that the day ahead is the first day to a new shiny brand new car or great start to a dream come true job. It is filled with possibilities of making joy like one bakes cakes for fun. Too many times sweet sugary cookies and cakes filled with cream and cream and more and the day that you don't want to end. It should be endless.

Then, there are those mornings. Everyone on this planet has seen those mornings. If someone says they haven't, then they are simply lying to be optimistic which is a good thing. But don't believe it, because it's not true.
There are those mornings. Where it seems better to just lie in your bed, a fuzzy soft blanket covered till your chin, all cozy and...safe. Safe from the perils of the world outside. Not facing them, making you feel more like a hero than a damn coward. Giving up seems like a terrific thing to do. A huge Fuck You to everyone you knew and you just simmer in your bed.

Today however, she felt like she was having a two way street morning. Being a person allows you to have a mixture of two sides. Just like Isabella. Where she was okay, not happy but okay and dreadful. Brushing her teeth with lazy zigzagging motion, her arm moved with it.

Her heart had already begun the ritual thumping she usually felt around Mar- huhhhhhhhhh! She spat out the water, rubbed her mouth viciously against the towel which she threw instead of normally keeping it gently on the handle. She sprang swiftly but quietly to the front room.

No sign of him. Her eyes travelled around the room and zoomed straight to the front door. He left her after he had tucked her to bed. She remembered that beautifully in her head. Stupid disappointment washed over her. Thinking he would be here for her to throw him out herself but knowing he wasn't here for her to throw out was kind of a hard and soft feeling.

Does that happen to anyone? To be cruel that arouses you? She had many a client that told her things that she never tell anyone but there was something tragically wrong to hear someone's inner thoughts and wants and actions. Maybe because she never did it herself.

Isabella, never spoke of her thoughts to anyone but herself. Asking herself those same questions she did to her clients so that she can be the true and sole judge of her own character.

Bloody hell, then what was so wrong about feeling disappointed when he wasn't here? Marcelo is gone and he should stay gone.

And then, a soft grunt like snore emitted from the couch. Her eyes guarded as she slowly sidled up to the back of her black sofa. Hmm...maybe her office did look like her house. Or was it vice-versa?

Leaning over it, her mouth parted.

Marcelo stretched out over the black leather in nothing but those ridiculous sexy basketball black shorts. They came right to his knees. Baggy and loose but nicely stretched around certain specific areas. His legs were molded to be strength and stern. Like she noticed before, dusting of black hair enclosed both of his legs. Muscular calves and ankles leading to those big bare feet.