Today's muse: Carry on Tuesday
Today's prompt: Where are you?
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Where are you?
They stayed up well after the moon was high; spent the night talking, laughing, crying.
“How did we get here?” Rhonda tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “We were in love once weren’t we?”
“Some part of us still is.” Jason took her hand. “And always will be. We just, I don’t know, took different paths.”
Rhonda nodded. If she was honest, she’d admit that she wasn’t happy either; hadn’t been for quite some time. “We’ll still be friends, right?”
“Of course.” Jason brought his hand to her cheek. “We’ll always love each other, it’ll be different, that’s all.”
Rhonda forced a smile, flicked her tongue across her lips. “Maybe better.”
Jason leaned into her, his mouth hovering just above hers. “Much better.” He pulled the strap of her nightgown off her shoulder, ran moist kisses across it and up her neck. “Much, much better.”
She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. His mouth teased as he murmured promises, drew her higher until she flew.
In retrospect, he should have just held her after, cuddled a little. Even gone another round. Instead, the afterglow of sex had his mouth flapping like a teenaged girl; admitting to Rhonda that the reason he’d been late almost every night for the last three months was because he was banging his secretary. He hadn’t worded it exactly that way—he was much more eloquent—but it didn’t matter.
Jason was now hunched behind a tower of boxes in the basement. Sweat had his t-shirt pasted to his back; his breathing was harsh and fast.
He’d never seen Rhonda that pissed before. She had lunged at him, screaming and clawing at him with those sharp nails she kept perfectly manicured. Jason tried to reason with her but she had raged like a maniac.
“Emily means nothing,” he’d insisted. She did have a great ass, though.
It was all a little grey now, but Jason wondered if he’d admitted that last part out loud. He must have. It explained why he was crouched behind a pile of old boxes, the click of the Colt’s hammer bouncing off the basement walls.
Rhonda’s sing-song voice rang out, turned his bowels to mush.
“Jaaaason. Wheeere aaaare yooooou?”