Heart In A Cage

41

Isabella

It took two weeks for Andreas' lively attitude to be revivified. Approximately fourteen days, each of which consisted of a morning and afternoon occupied toiling within Aressia—which, initially, he threatened I wouldn't go to for a week—and an evening and night where decreasingly vain attempts were made to grasp that cheerful, spirited part of him.

When it came back, I no longer had to go to such extreme efforts to spark conversation between us or get him to satiate my carnal hunger. He, most the time, would be the one to invite me into the shower, initiate the first move in bed, tap me on the thigh when he got too bored at the register, or look down at me lasciviously on the drive home.

Yesterday he'd watched me get undressed, said he was thirsty, and gazed at my panties like he wanted to rip them apart with his teeth alone. He didn't live up to his claim of not fucking me.

Gladly, I welcomed him and spent too many hours with my chest crushed by his own. His body can be very bothering sometimes, such as when I wake in the middle of the night to his head nestled between my head and shoulder and his arms fenced around me.

Or perhaps in the present, when I've senselessly hooked my arm through his for the sake of comfort and now have his biceps crushing my own. He's doing it intentionally.

"Does a raspberry popsicle sound fucking blue to you?" I use the hand that was just stroking his bicep to now squeeze his bicep. I'm hopeless, and I cant knee him in the balls with a crowd of people lining up behind us, waiting to reach the front of the truck.

"Is it so bad if it does? Not everyone sees eye to eye."

He doesn't so much as flinch when I begin pinching his bicep.

"Baby," he laughs, "you're not hurting me. You're just turning me on."

I move forward with him as he steps up to take our treats from the ice cream man at the window. He uses one hand to grab them, making sure his opposite arm doesn't quit on restraining me to his side.

"Can't you be decent for a change? I worked well today, and I didn't beg you to stop the car so I can get a blueberry flavoured popsicle. I gave you the chance to be good right on a silver platter and you dropped it because you're a selfish prick." I almost stumble on our walk to the car, his restraint on me intact. "And who in their right mind chooses to get a plain vanilla vegan ice cream cone with all that there is? You could've at least topped it off with sprinkles. A stick of chocolate. A crumbled cookie. A drizzle of raspberry syrup."

"What's your deal with raspberry? I thought you liked things creamy." He finally releases me when we get to the car. I snatch my popsicle from him and round to the passenger's side, shaking the car with a rough slam of the door.

"I like it when you're feisty." He clicks his belt and ignites the car. "It's hot."

When the car moves forward and we're driving through the lane, I rotate towards the window and suck my popsicle. I scowl at the taste—the horrid, artificial taste.

The brisk air gusts against my face, brushing my unbound hair out the way of my mouth. I watch families, groups of friends, and...couples socialize. Like a lady with ruby hair clutching the hand of her bearded partner.

As time wears on, the reminders that I and Andreas are simply the products of what feels like an eternal game dwindles. They're slowly subsiding with the more he cuddles me, kisses me, talks to me, cooks for me, and fucks me. And sometimes I suspect it's because of that tender, gooey, intimate pang in my chest that deters me from grasping what lies true in our relationship—because of that affectionate feeling that works especially well during midnight when I'm coddled in his arms, the physical weight of his body my only distraction to not completely sinking into warm but unwanted thoughts.