nc-17 | sexual content
Dark liquid in a dirty glass, and he understood what drove her to it. He was exhausted, but he couldn't bring himself to drag his weary body to bed. It was contaminated. They had spent the bulk of their relationship - such as it was - in that bed. Resting his head on the pillow would just remind him of the last time they fucked - he couldn't recall the last time they made love - in that bed.
Maybe they'd never made love, as it had always been angry, forceful, bordering on violent, no doubt because they never bothered to actually talk. At work, they discussed suspects and cases and evidence. In bed, she told him to fuck her harder, and he told her she was so fucking tight. They had become masters at avoiding discussion of anything important - her drinking, his wandering eye.
The last time, she had bit him, sinking her teeth into his shoulder as he sunk his erection into her.
The alcohol slid down his throat, soothing and burning in a paradoxical annoyance. Eventually, he decided, he would just pass out here, slumped over on the couch. The glass would probably fall to the floor. The bottle might be knocked over. The carpet she had wanted, the one she had pushed him to purchase, because his floors were so ugly, would be ruined, but it wouldn't matter, because she was gone.
He rubbed his face, the feel of bare skin unfamiliar after wearing that beard for years. He was foolish to have thought shaving it off would fix things.
Her letter sat on his kitchen counter; it had been read and re-read, in the hope that perhaps an 'I will always love you' might suddenly appear. Instead, it was all 'don't follow me' and 'this is what I have to do'. He processed her words and remembered their last time, when she whispered something into his bad ear as she climaxed beneath him. He had asked her for clarification, but she dodged the subject with warm hands stroking his cock.
Liquid courage, she called it once, and he downed another shot. It would be easy to find her, if he really wanted to. He could have Jim pull phone records to her parents - no, not her parents - her friends, then - but he doesn't even know who she's friends with. He had never called her his girlfriend; in the moments when he pondered that, he told himself it was because of the secrecy they had to maintain to keep their jobs. But she had never called him her boyfriend, even when they were alone, and it was clear to him now that it was because she never saw him as that.
There was a time when he saw himself settling down with her somewhere, maybe even raising a family, if that's what she wanted. He could visualize her sitting in their living room, reading the latest forensic journal, sunlight filtering through the window, glinting off her wedding ring. He could see himself coming home after a long shift, finding her waiting for him in bed. He could envision them growing old together, sitting on the porch, admiring the sunset as he told her about the different species of crickets that were serenading them.
He never imagined he'd have five months of fucking in the afternoon, awkwardness at work, empty conversations, culminating in a resignation and a Dear John letter.