Often times, I get lazy and fail to finish a story. Here is one such example.

As alcohol had pulsated through his veins, so anticipation had raced in hers. Unfounded, of course, but she had made a promise to end this after tonight. Tonight this longing would end, leaving with him or leaving without him. Whether he had realised or not was unclear, but he never left her side and through a torrent of words, old wounds and unexpected guests, she had tried to protect him. For the first time in months, her own needs were superfluous. All that mattered was him.

The conversation has become nothing more than a blur. But the volume of the music, her words struggling to overpower the decibels to reach his ears, and then, like a thunder clap, his weight against her as her back pressed against the wall, this same pressure imitated between their lips, the need, the hunger screaming as the past eight months were entirely forgotten, the momentary lapse in her judgement just to feel that necessary again – all of this was as clear as day.

This had to more than just that time of year.


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