Staring down at the phone, I wonder why calling you matters. Why every time I feel a slight thrill but a slight embarrassment that I know all three of your numbers of by heart. Why I feel nervous, anxious of making a fool of myself. It's unlikely, when we both know why I'm calling already. It's always the same. An awkward phone call, as though when we actually have to use our voices we have no chemistry, followed by a night where we prove we excel at expressing ourselves in other ways.
I put down the white handset without dialling- these thoughts disgust me. I'm making you sound like some cheap friend with benefits. And something in me says that's all you are. But maybe I want something more, maybe I reject those thoughts because I still want to pretend you're a good man. Despite all the evidence to the contrary. I regret the fact that you aren't even a friend with benefits now; you're just the benefits. Where did that change? Not the first time surely, the first time we succumbed to lust and need, allowing our passion to carry our desperate selves far away, until we were lost in an oblivious heaven. The second was similar, and the third... Maybe the fourth, when for the first time we didn't have the whiskey to blame for our actions. Or the sixth, when for the first time we didn't say anything afterwards. Hell, I don't know, but all this has become is a string of bittersweet nights, an outlet for our emotions which only magnifies them later.
I go downstairs, pull out that old bottle, the one we drank from on that first night, and pour myself a glass. Not a shot; I'm going to do this properly. I'm going to drink the thoughts of you to hell and back.
I'm probably about half-way there when the doorbell rings. I stumble over to it; I shouldn't be answering the door in this state but I'm drunk enough not to care. I twist the lock, singing to myself more loudly than I'd intended. I swing open the door, about to welcome whoever the fuck's standing outside into my house, and probably my bed, when I see it's you. You're standing there, and I realise a similar bottle to the one I've just been consuming graces your hand. But you're a quieter drunk than me, always have been. Your eyes are red; I could blame the alcohol but really I know you've been crying. That's when I realise for the first time; now all I am to you is the benefits. You've lost a friend too.
That revelation stops me feeling quite so sorry for myself, and I stand aside, the anger I hadn't realised I felt towards you dissipating. You walk through the door meekly, obviously embarrassed about having come here. I don't touch you at all as you walk in; a second ago I would have been kissing you the instant you entered, but the expression on your face has sobered me up.
“We need to talk.” Your voice is soft, made husky by the burning liquid. I nod, and flee the room to grab a couple of glasses. We'll do this in a civilised fashion. I wordlessly set the tumblers out, and lift your bottle from you've placed it by your feet, along with my one standing haphazardly on the arm of the sofa. I hold them both out to you, still without speaking, and you point to my one. The hint of a smile shows through your damp eyes as you recognise it.
Amber liquid sloshing out into the two glasses, the bottle empties. I sit beside you on the sofa, but leave some distance between us. I still don't trust either of us. We each pick up our full glasses, and, since neither of us drink, I turn to you. “What do we need to talk about?” I don't mean to sound fake, like a flawless mother denying her child has misbehaved, but I do, and your green eyes are disappointed. “Still joking?” you question me.
“I didn't mean to” is the best I can stammer; no apology, no regret.
“You never do, do you?” bitterness edges into your voice.
“Sorry.” I eventually murmur, looking down. The word tastes unfamiliar, yet its syllables seem to drip off my lips with more ease than I'd expected.
I lean towards you, innocently meaning to comfort you, to give you a hug, run my fingers through your short hair. Initially you flinch away, not in horror but in anxiety; you don't want this to end up being the same mistake again. However, my traitorous eyes find your tear-stained ones and you allow me to cradle your head in one hand. I run my thumb over your cheek, noting for the first time the softness of your skin against the stubble. I notice the slight tilt of your head, your proud jawline, firm cheekbones. It could be the mist of alcohol veiling my sight, but you look handsome. A shiver runs through me at that thought. Hot, yes, sexy, yes, whatever can be put down to sheer lust, yes, but handsome? That's like you calling me beautiful.
Either you can read my thoughts or the whiskey's affected you more than you've let on. Our gazes have locked again, and this time it's you leaning in. I've let my hand fall back to the sofa but you take my face in both of yours, drawing me in. My lips are seconds away from yours, and as you speak I can feel your breath caressing them. “You look beautiful, Lyla.”
Our mouths are about to meld, but this honest confession has me turning my head, pulling out of your hands. My sudden motion clarifies something for each of us- as the room spins I realise this would probably be a good time to stop drinking, and you realise what you were on the verge of doing.
You rise, knocking over your glass as you do so. Neither of us bother to clear up the mess. “I'm going to go now. Before I just fuck myself up anymore over you.” you growl. I don't know why, but I stand too, and grab hold of your arm. “Did you mean it?”
“Did I mean what?” you hiss, trying to pull out of my grasp. I know if you really wanted to you could break away easily, but you don't, instead continuing your rant. “Did I mean that I'm fucking myself up over you, yes, I did. If you're trying to pretend we're doing anything other than using each other, if you're trying to pretend that we can still have a decent conversation, you carry on doing that, but I can't!”
How angry you are shocks me; our nights have become so numb save for the lust that I'd forgotten how fast your mood can change when you are drunk. Part of me is scared, worried how this will end up, but another part of me doesn't care,so long as something changes. We've finally broken our routine, broken the taboo of not speaking about this, and now we're falling. Fast. It's like we're finally being forced to face the consequences of many mistakes, all at once. Or just the same mistake, made a hundred times.