When We Were Young

Scars

We didn't talk of her; it would take time before words were spoken that weren't accompanied by tears. For now, we let the simplicity of everyday life distract us, along with each other, although she still rarely left the sofa.

Where at first she wouldn't let me near her, Skylar had become insatiable. Not that I minded, at first. I often woke to her going down on me, or her hands clutching my cock, willing me to wake. I would and rollover, barely saying a word, and make love to her. When I'd get back from class, she would leap from the sofa and wrap her arms around me as if I hadn't seen her in weeks.

There was a distance in her eyes though, and I knew she was still trying so hard to fill the loss.

The sex became routine. I was the medicine she needed to distract her. At times, I had to concentrate so hard just to finish because she wasn't looking at me. Her eyes were squeezed shut and I wondered if she was even thinking of me.

It was early February and the weather turned so cold my bones felt like glass shattering beneath my skin, no matter how many sweaters and scarves I wore beneath my wool coat. It was a Thursday night, and my class ended early. This was it—the home stretch—my last semester with two classes and the internship during the day at the Met.

Skylar said she would have dinner ready and I couldn't wait. I hadn't eaten since noon and it was nearing eight. The blast of warmth blanketed my face when I walked into our apartment.

She was in the kitchen, apron on and hair dangling around her face. Her cheeks were flushed and at first I thought it might be the heat from cooking. But I saw an empty bottle of wine, another opened, and a pool of water swimming in her eyes.

Skylar was drunk and doing a piss poor job of pretending she wasn't.

"Hey," I said and tried to not let it bother me. But for some reason, it did. I slid off my coat, and she hurried up to me and more or less collapsed against me, her arms slipping around my waist. She leaned up and kissed my neck. I squirmed away, laughing, but it came out more like a choked grunt, "Let me get my coat off."

Skylar chuckled. "I'll get your clothes off."

"Stop, stop. Seriously, not right now," I pulled away, plastering a smile on my face, but it wasn't real and drunk or not, she saw that.

"Oh, come on, you know I can't keep my hands off you," she said, her words blending together. She untucked my shirt and tried to unbuckle my belt.

"Enough," I shouted. I grabbed her wrists and stared her down.

Skylar yanked her hands from my grasp and stepped back, sizing me up. She blinked her eyes rapidly, as if trying to understand something I said. She nodded, her expression blank, and went back to the stove.

I scrambled for something to say but came up empty. Instead, I poured myself a glass of wine and took a sip.

"Um, smells good," I finally blurted out. Her silence was torturous.

"Just chicken cutlets," she said quietly, with a shrug.

I moved behind her and rested my chin on her shoulder. Immediately she tensed and then shrugged me off.

"I don't think so," she murmured and plated the chicken next to a salad.

"Come on, Sky." I marched away and took a bigger gulp of the wine. "Just because I don't want to fuck you as soon as I walk in the door, doesn't mean I don't want to touch you." She glared at me and threw the pan in the sink with a loud bang. Shaking her head she poured more wine into her glass, but her hands were shaking and some ended up on the counter. I reached to wipe it but she swiped at my hand.