The Bad Thing

I'm always wrong

The way his lips meet mine and his nose inhales the smell of my skin is making me want to live every bit of the moment. The way he pulls me by my waist and sticks me with his body, as his other hand digs between my messy hair and neck, just below my ear, is making me shiver. That is probably the reason why I keep on meeting him. I know there is nothing more than the sexual tension between us. At least for him. But, every time he fondles my hand, or lays next to me, I could swear he feels something. 

And I'm always wrong. 

"What time is it?" his raspy voice makes me open my eyes and encounter the painful sunlight. I lazily turn to look at him. His one eye is half open and one of his hands try to find a clock from the small table beside him. 
I don't answer. I don't want to know the answer actually. It can be 8 o'clock, it can be 11 o'clock... not much of a difference for me. 

"Oh shit." he says as he puts the clock back on the table. He stands up. Every vibe I felt yesterday between us is gone... as always. He doesn't look at me. He doesn't say anything to me. Not even goodmorning, or slept well? Maybe I'm asking for too much. Or maybe he is just asking for too little. 

He dresses up. His clothes are all over the place and I'm surprised he even found his shirt. He puts his leather jacket and heads to the door. That's when I decide to speak. 

"Are you leaving?"

He stops to the doorway and turns to look at me. His eyes are sleepily looking at my -covered with sheets- figure and raises his eyebrows before responding. 

"I have to go practice with the boys. We'll talk." and with that, disappears behind the door. 

No he is not my boyfriend. He is not even my friend. I refuse to call him fuck-friend because, besides the disgusting sound of it, I don't see him as one. I try to convince myself I don't have feelings for him, but I'm a fool. I'm not as cool as I wish I would be. 
It's not like I belive fuck-friends are unacceptable. But I don't like referring to him like that, because I always wish he was more to me. I hate myself for thinking this, but I guess I can't help it. 

You see, I know how this night will end. 
I know who will knock at my door at 00:00 o'clock without even asking a name. 
I know who will disappear the next morning and maybe call one whole week later, or repeat the events the next day. 

As predictable as he sounds... he is not. I can never understand or even guess what he is thinking. I can never hear him talking about himself, because he is not. Not ever. It has come to a point where I can't even ask him about it because I always get the same answer: Not important.
And it's weird how he hasn't left. I mean completely left. I don't know why he is still coming and calling even when he doesnt' seem to think about me. Everything I feel we have when we kiss and touch is gone when we don't.  

These thoughts occupy my mind -as every morning- while I'm still laying on my bed, unable to stand up. I yawn and stretch and when I finally got the strength to wake up, the door knocks. 

"What the fuck" I mumble as I cover my naked body with the sheets and drag them along to the door. I look from the door's eye hole and it's him. What does he want all of a sudden? He just left. Maybe he forgot something. 

I open the door and let him in without looking at him, as I move behind the door. 

"Forgot my keys." He says. Just like I thought. 
He steps inside and searches the place. I hear the sound of his keys and obviously he found them. He was about to leave when he spots me behind the door. The bed sheet was covering my chest and the rest of my lower body. 
He approaches me and closes the door. 
"Are you naked?" he asks, his eye pupil widens to the sight of my squeezed breasts under the sheets. 

"No." I lie. My face creates a perfect poker face. He smirks weakly and grabs my hands, so that I let the sheet down to fall. That's exactly what happens and they land on my ankles, my body exposed to him. 
He bites his lower lip and he pins my hands above my head. His face approaches mine. 
"Don't you have practice?" I say. 
He stops. 
His eyes meet mine.

"If I could keep you in my pocket and have you whenever I wanted I would. But for now, let's say see you later." he says with his Sheffield accent emphasizing the important bits of his words, releases my hands and leaves.