Drift by denverpopcorn, A - D
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Drift by denverpopcorn
http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6388820/1/
The Man Who Wasn't Him
He was in the bathroom filling a glass with water when she woke up. He heard
the springy mattress shift with her weight. He twisted the "Hot" knob towards
hotter, his glass becoming the color of fog and overflowing.
The man in the mirror, who wasn't him, stared back blankly. It was no longer him
who blinked and kept blinking. The man in the mirror gazed back, green eyes
flashing like a busted traffic signal.
"Edward?"
He turned the faucet off, drained out the water from his glass, and ignored his
scalding fingers. He gripped the porcelain wash basin around the sloped edges
with little purchase.
Edward shook his head and breathed in another day. It was just another day.
Clearing his throat and looking away from the man in the mirror that wasn't him,
Edward called back to his lover.
His one and only, who was not his to one and only.
She was dressed to leave. Her red winter pea coat hugged her from neck to knee,
no hair out of place - a picture of a woman with purpose, facing a man wiping his
hands on his boxers.
His apartment was loft-style and bachelor friendly, cozy enough for stranded
work paraphernalia, take-out cartons, magazines, and transient love.
His wrought-iron bed sat anchored in the center of the loft, the white sheets
banked at the edges, the pillows pressed into the headboard. These were the only
hints of her.
She was tucked in and smoothed over like a wrapped present meant for someone
else. He knew better than to touch her. Hand on door, he leaned over her, the
other hand on her hip.
Lightly, lightly.
Breathing her in one more time.
"When will I see you again?" he stalled with clenched eyes, counting away the
panic. He knew the answer to this already, and later that night, he wouldn't recall
if she actually pointed at her ring finger and rolled her eyes, or mumbled
incoherently about a business trip, or in-laws and people whose names he could
never know.
They made plans for phone calls. They made plans until his return.
They were always making plans.
The Chatter
Part 1
Work will come easy for him that morning. The writing will go well. He won't even
dress for it.
He can work in his boxers, only donning thick socks to keep the chill from the
hardwood floors off his feet. He can rest his feet up on the coffee table, settling in
while his laptop whirs.
He wants to write about her and the unmade bed that hogs the bulk of his space.
He wants to write of her cinnamon scent left on his shoulder, the last kiss she
placed on his closed eyes, the sound of the door shutting, the silence.
He laughs at himself, picturing his editor's eyes bulging in disbelief and later
narrowing in exasperation.
When the phone rings, he is halfway finished with the article that sends him away
on research. His cell phone, an older model, is loud and tinny. He's either
forgotten or neglected to upgrade his plan.
"Where are you now?" asks his brother, Emmett. Their bond reaches beyond the
corners of conversation.
"I'm home." Edward, calm in the company of his brother's voice, is used to it.
"Home where? Home, here, or home, Seattle?"
"Home here, Em. Got in last night. How's mom?" As brothers, they are masters of
mutual distraction.
"Fine. You know, taking down her Christmas lights months later. I had to go over
with the ladder today. Icy as fuck out. There's a storm."
"Yeah?" Edward turns on the television and paces in front of the news channel.
"Better get provisions," says Emmett with a mouthful of food. "I have to go, get
things fixed up for mom. Dad's stuck at the ER tonight. See you this weekend?"
Emmet is a man tethered to the whims of domesticity.
"Sure. What..."
"Have you told her, yet?"
Edward knew it was a matter of time for Emmett to hijack the call. He pinches his
nose and looks out the window. His brother is right; it's looking wicked out there.
He wonders if Bella has made it home.
"No. I haven't," his neighbor is shoveling his walk. "What the fuck for?" He
mumbles, frowning at the frost on his window.
"What do you mean 'what the fuck for'? Dude. You don't need this, you're not
you, man." Emmett thought, after their last conversation, it was a given. Has his
brother changed his mind?
"No, Em. I wasn't talking about…" Exasperated at the neighbor and his inability to
articulate, he continues with "...never mind. I see what you mean. I know. We
talked about it. And talked, and talked," he mumbles to a finish. "I'll do it. I'll
break it off. You're right." He has managed to sound convincing even to himself.
"You're right," he repeats, staring at his neighbor bending and lifting at the
knees, while the snow accumulates quickly on the walk.
"Right."
Part 2
The six a.m. weatherman in business-casual dress and accessible stance called
for blizzard. The weather girl in the late-morning broadcast repeated this, at
every "ten to the hour" in a parka and earmuffs.
Both spoke in inches and feet and precipitation and record-setting hyperboles.
"We're looking at a state of emergency by the end of the day, folks." The news
was covered in dulcet tones and plastered smiles.
Later that morning, as the flakes fatten the trees, children will be sent away by
grateful teachers. Office workers will collectively celebrate the crippled transit
system and head back the way they came.
Everyone will talk about it as if the storm could cease in the presence of silence.
There will be calls.
There will be tweets and status updates.
There will be flashing tickers on news screens.
There will be chatter over wires, underground, and across the tubes.
No one finds fault with the snow.
Except Edward.
He has no food in the house and a knock at the door to answer.
Feed Me
Part 1
Her mascara is smudged into laugh lines, cradling smoky eyes. The young snow
sparkles off her hair and face. Damp tendrils set loose droplets of water on her
coat.
Bella smiles at him and exhales in almost-relief when he answers the door in the
same state of undress she left him in. Hours have passed, but the desire to
reclaim them overwhelm her.
She had originally stepped out to hail a cab, but none were available. Lingering at
a nearby coffee shop, she heard the collective chatter celebrating a snow day.
She bought a coffee and listened to the baristas speak of closing early. Their
usual surly moods were on the upswing as they smiled at customers and, like the
rest of the City, discussed the pleasures of a snow day.
Looking around the shop, she didn't have to be a mind reader to know their
thoughts and whispers.
The pierced barista pulling shots of espresso was thinking of behind-the-counter
sex with his co-worker. The petite blonde, coiffed in power-suit fashion,
glimmered with anticipation of a relaxing day with her cats. The couple at the
window, clearing their table with touching fingers, had eyes for sex.
The snow held promise of debauched indulgence behind closed doors.
Hours of snow stacked up on the swings in the park across the street. She smiled
while blowing her coffee cool, thinking of him and his hands.
Rough, they've been to places, inside and outside of her.
The decision was made.
She placed a call, and walked back the way she came.
Part 2
He wastes no time and has her up against the cold sliding glass doors.
Fingers of winter air tease her neck. Her skin blushes white and pink with every
thrust. The gathered frost bites and nips at her back furiously until she comes
undone like a snowman. He fucks her until his thighs burn.
When he sets her feet down, his fingers graze her chilled thighs and rub them, as
if by extension, he can warm them both.
She chokes back a tiny sob into his chest and masks it with a plea for food.
She is ravenous.
"Feed Me."
Part 3
Holding hands, they hike the naked city streets to a corner market. She wears his
favorite college sweatshirt under her coat. The threadbare hoodie crinkles snugly
around her face, thief-like.
The piercing wind makes her eyes glisten.
He buys her chocolate bars, and she laughs when he throws glow-in-the-dark
condoms into their hand basket. Waltzing up and down the aisles of the bright
store, they pick up as much as their arms can carry.
In front of the frozen food case, stalled by their reflections in the glass, he makes
up a tale about feasts of fancy, whispering a story of two children setting off into
the woods, fighting off evil winter sprites and coming upon a sprawling buffet.
"A buffet of what," she says to his reflection, with a tang of cynicism.
"Of this," he motions toward the candy aisle.
"Powdered donuts, ropes of Red Vines, ginger ale." He throws it all in. "Chili hot
dogs, Vienna sausages, corn chips, potato chips, ranch dip, bean dip, cheese dip,
ice cream, and juice."
He grabs her by the waist. She grabs another basket.
At the counter, she points behind the cashier and adds antacids to their purchase.
Whiskey
They sit up at either end of his bed. Nude and sated, post-sex and snack food,
Edward absentmindedly rubs her foot. Occasionally, he finds and eats a stray Red
Hot off the sheets.
They share the covers.
"Bella, bo bella, her feet do smella..." he sings into her toes with a smile. She
chuckles but pulls her foot back.
"I was singing to that foot. Give it back." He snatches it by the ankle.
"My feet don't 'smella', Edward," she says in a playful huff and sits up straighter,
letting the sheet settle around her waist, exposing round and heavy breasts.
Her lack of modesty, long since fucked away, makes his stomach clench and the
back of his eyes prick. The wanting settles low in his spine. He stares for lack of
air.
"Do you remember when we first met," she asks, watching his finger glide over
the lacquer of a red toenail.
"Sure, I do." He sighs. "You always bring it up." He puts her foot down and works
his own under the covers, sneaking its way toward her.
"I believe," he says as the sole of his foot finds her in-between, "you called me a
dick." He rests his foot at the base of her wet fuzz and applies a well-known
pressure.
"You're silly." Without thinking, she guides his foot further into her. She hums.
Both sets of eyes grow big, and after a surprised pause, they laugh. She swats at
his leg like she meant to do, but he doesn't move it. And she doesn't tell him to.
"That's because you were arrogant," she says, getting back on topic, and
remembering it her way. "You had so many girls throwing themselves at you that
night. But you talked to me. I don't know why." She casts the line out, hoping for
a tug. It does not come.
Resting her head back, she focuses on the blades of the ceiling fan slowly slicing
the edges of stray light.
Her memories of that night flitter.
Edward wishes she would talk about anything else, but he is used to obliging her
nostalgia.
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