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Title: Camelus Bactrianus
Author: Clay
Characters/Pairing: Mitch/Gloria, Devon
Rating/Warnings: R for cursing and attempted rape
Summary: A study in the end of a marriage, told through the desperation for a cigarette.
Word Count: 3,966
“What is wrong with you?”
Blue eyes stared up at her, widened in horror, tears rimming the bottom lid. On the floor at their feet, scattered over and around four year old Joel's tiny, battered sneakers, lay the remains of a vase—a small, Lenox piece she'd received as a wedding present. The pieces glinted up at her merrily, and Gloria felt a tremor of rage travel up her spine.
“Are you fucking stupid?”
Joel took a step back, his small mouth forming a perfect O. The baby let out a startled shriek from the next room, eggs sizzled on the stove, and Mitch called to her from the far end of the apartment.
She ignored it all.
Irrational anger threatened to overtake her, and she darted out a hand, snatching at Joel's thin wrist, pulling him forward and pointing down at the shards of crystal.
“Why did you do that?” she screamed into his face. He gasped, a tear streaking down his cheek. “Why? Why would you do that!?”
“Gloria,” Mitch's voice came again, softer, closer now. “Gloria, calm down.”
She released Joel and spun on Mitch, and she very well knew how badly she was overreacting. She knew she should stop, take a moment to collect herself and then clean the mess and finish breakfast, but after the night she'd had—
“Do you see this?” she yelled instead, her worn loafers crunching over the broken pieces. “He does this on purpose! He's trying to drive me insane!”
For a moment, Mitch just stared at her. His oxford was buttoned up to the neck, his tie limp around his shoulders and waiting to be knotted, and he stared at her, his clear blue eyes that he'd given to their son sad and confused.
“Gloria,” he said again, advancing himself now to lay a hand on her shoulder. Starting, Gloria reached out and slapped him across the face. Shocked speechless, he could only reel back and lift a hand to his abused cheek.
“Don't you fucking patronize me, Mitch. Don't you fucking dare.” Still Mitch watched her, his mouth hanging open, and with a deep sigh, Gloria shoved past him and fled.
* * *
Devon would go outside every hour or so to light up, leaving her behind the counter. She stared at him through the smudged glass doors, watched the smoke and moths alike flit around the tarnished light from the storefront, blazing 7-11 in all its glory to the dregs of the world actually cognizant at 3 a.m.
It was just she and him almost every night. He sat around, the omnipotent night manager while he told her what to do, what to stock, where to clean, his busy little worker bee scampering about the store, ringing up the red eyed hippies and working boys like herself. Those last ones she liked quite a bit: older men that reminded her of her daddy, coming in off the night shift with slumped shoulders and a warm smile, just looking for a pack of smokes or a bottle of coke to keep them going until their bed could find them.
But customers were few and far between, and at 3:02 on the dot, every morning, he'd scarf down a hot dog and settle down on the folding chair out front for his lunch time smoke. More often than not, she'd be on her break at the same time. Mitch had made her a turkey sandwich with lettuce. She chewed slowly, perched on the counter and watching Devon, captivated by the lazy drift of smoke from his mouth.
Devon—God, she hated him. It wasn't just that he paraded around the small store like a fucking God, no, that she could handle. She'd dealt with it plenty in her day. Maybe it was the way he stared at her tits every time she was in eye shot. Maybe it was the way he'd lick his lips while he spoke, his small, fat tongue darting out to lap at the corners of too thin lips, like someone had taken a knife and slashed a crooked line across his face.
Maybe it was a lot of things, but probably—most definitely—it was the simple fact of having to watch him sit out on the sidewalk hour after hour, night after night, and smoke his fucking cigarettes.
God, she needed a cigarette.
* * *
The bathroom door slamming behind her reverberated throughout the small apartment. Safe inside, Gloria searched her pockets, trying in vain to block out the wails of her children, and the soothing tones of her husband as he attempted to comfort them.
Finally she withdrew a pack of Marlboro reds from her khakis. She took a moment to look over the dented pack, and, flipping it open, she found it three quarters full. Slipping one cigarette free, she dug her hand back into her pocket and came back with a cheap blue lighter, but her hands were shaking too badly to produce a flame.
With an angry cry, she tossed the cigarettes and lighter alike to the floor before dropping down herself, pulling her knees up and leaning back against the cold porcelain of the tub. A bulb was out above the bathroom mirror. They'd need to buy a new one.
Looking down to her hands again—at the red, swollen knuckles that still throbbed dully—watching the way her hands trembled, her nerves shot, she bowed her head and cried.
* * *
She hadn't smoked in years, not since getting pregnant with Joel. Mitch had followed shortly after, giving it up as well so as not to tempt her, and that had been all well and good for a year. Maybe two. Then she started working nights, Amy was born and she had to go right back to work because they couldn't afford for her not to, and there was less sex and more fighting, and she was always and forever tired. So, so fucking tired of her life and everything and everyone in it. Was it so much to ask for one, just one cigarette?
They didn't have the money for her to start smoking again, so instead she sat and watched Devon smoke.
Halfway through her sandwich, she lay it down and pushed off the counter, the pair of worn loafers she'd commandeered from her husband, one size too large, landing with a smack on the dirty tile.
She never took her eyes off Devon's mouth, off the ribbon of smoke he blew so carelessly toward the night sky. Without realizing it, she was out the door, the bell jingling her arrival, and Devon was looking up in curiosity. He smiled.
It wasn't a nice smile. It was dark and full of the threat of malice, and she loathed him more every second even as she stepped forward and asked, “Can I get a drag on that?”
Devon's grin widened, showing yellowed teeth, and she felt sick.
“You want some?” he asked unnecessarily, the last word drawn out in drawl, his smile widening further. He hoisted the cigarette between his thick fingers; the filter shone with his saliva.
“Yeah.”
“Whatcha gonna gimme for it?”
She frowned in slight confusion, watched his eyes as they roamed her body, centering on her breasts stretching the material of her uniform obscenely. The shirt was half a size too small, but when she'd brought that up, Devon had told her that she'd need to pay if she wanted a new one, and eventually she'd given up.
Running her fingers through her unwashed hair, and feeling like a fucking street walker, Gloria closed her eyes and let out a breath. “What do you want?”
He chuckled darkly and raised an eyebrow. “You know what I want.”
* * *
By the time she'd calmed herself, her hands had ceased their trembling, and she picked up a discarded cigarette. It looked so innocuous in the yellowed half-light. Chuckling mirthlessly, she lifted the cigarette to her lips, and, finally managing to light it, inhaled the smoke deeply. Bitter and heady, it calmed her nerves further and left her feeling light headed. It had been years.
Mitch's voice filtered through the door, calling her name again, and Gloria sighed and shut her eyes. “Go away.”
He fell silent, but she could still feel his presence on the other side of the door, could feel him waiting. Finally, he said, “I finished breakfast for Joel. He's eating now.” He paused again, then continued, “He's very upset, Gloria. He thinks you hate him.”
“Well, maybe he shouldn't try my fucking patience, then, now should he?”
“Gloria,” Mitch admonished, though he sounded more concerned than angry.
She ignored him and ran her fingers through her hair. It felt stringy and greasy between her fingers; she hadn't had a chance to shower in two days. With a sigh, she bundled it up in a loose bun and then settled back again, taking another drag on the cigarette. She leaned her head back, blowing smoke toward the ceiling.
“I swept up the mess,” Mitch said after another moment.
Gloria sighed. “Good for you.”
He hesitated again. The seconds ticked by. “I need to go to work now.”
“Then go.”
“Gloria...”
The rattle of the brass knob drew her attention, and she snapped her head down as the door swung in, frowning. Mitch frowned, too, when he finally caught sight of her. His gaze immediately darted to the cigarette in her hand, and she looked away.
“Did you buy that?”
She gave a quick shake of the head and then muttered, “Got 'em from Devon.”
Mitch's frown deepened. “Devon's buying you cigarettes now, is he?”
Gloria snorted, shaking her head and rolling eyes. Finally she turned back to him, mocking disbelief in her gaze. “What, are you jealous?”
Mitch furrowed his brow and opened his mouth to speak, but he kept his tongue, and snapped his mouth shut again, just watching her with a frown. He knelt before her and reached out, plucking the cigarette from her hand. She let him. Turning it around, he took a long drag himself, holding in the smoke and then blowing it out with closed eyes, his mouth upturned in pleasure.
Watching him, Gloria couldn't help but smile herself.
Opening his eyes, he caught her smile and returned it, stubbing the cigarette out on the tile. “Better than sex, right?” he murmured.
Gloria shrugged. “I wouldn't remember.”
That wiped the smile from his face, and Mitch sighed, climbing back to his feet. “Gloria—“
“That was unnecessary. I'm sorry.”
“No, I—“
Gloria got to her feet as well, making to pass him, but he held out an arm, blocking her exit without actually touching her. She snapped her head around to look at him, wondering if the sadness that shown in his eyes was a reflection of her own. “Go to work, Mitch,” she mumbled.
He nodded slowly, and the hand that had been blocking her lifted to caress her check. “Tonight,” he promised.
* * *
She knew what he'd want. Of course she knew. He'd made it blatantly clear on more than one occasion, in the way he brushed against her constantly and without provocation, in his veiled and not-so-veiled comments, and, of course, in the way his eyes were consistently glued to her breasts.
“Fine,” she muttered, flipping her eyes open and scowling. “One kiss.”
“A kiss, hmm?” Devon licked his lips. She imagined his pale tongue to be wet and sticky, like that of a frog.
“One kiss.”
“C'mere then, sugar.”
It wasn't worth it, she told herself. Nothing was worth this. She thought of Mitch, of his sweet smile and his innocent demeanor, of how he tried so, so hard each and every day to make something of himself, to care for his wife and children. She thought of the hurt in his eyes if he knew she'd whored herself out for nothing more than a stupid drag on a stupid cigarette—not because she'd betrayed him but because he couldn't provide for her himself. She hated herself for even the possibility of making him feel that way.
Gloria bent low over Devon. He smelled like piss and tobacco, and she slammed her eyes shut and kissed him.
* * *
“Tonight what?” she asked, leaning into his palm, her eyes stinging.
Mitch smiled at her, slight, but genuine and lifted his other hand, cradling her cheeks. “We'll get a baby sitter; we'll go out on a proper date, and...and we'll make love.”
Gloria lowered her eyes. “We can't afford a baby sitter.”
“We'll do it anyway—“
“No, Mitch—“
“Yes,” Mitch whispered huskily, then dipped his head to lay a soft kiss against her mouth. It was gentle, chaste, and full of the desperation of a man who knew his marriage was falling apart. “Yes,” he whispered again, almost begging now as he closed his eyes and lay his forehead against hers.
The stinging in her eyes transferred to a hard lump at the base of her throat. She swallowed once and allowed her tears to fall as she pushed forward, grabbing his collar and kissing him.
* * *
It was only meant to be a peck on the lips, but his hand on the back of her neck held her in place as his thick tongue squashed against her lips, seeking entrance. She wretched at his stench, gasping and gagging, allowing his tongue to touch her, feeling off balance enough to allow him to pull her closer, his nails digging into the flesh of her neck, his fingers twining in her hair, twisting painfully. With every desperate breath, she inhaled his scent and taste. The urge to vomit swelled in her throat, and with a burst of strength, she shoved, dislodging herself and stumbling backward a few paces. Breathing hard, she wiped a the back of her hand across her mouth, and then turned her head and spat. She caught his eyes, his sick grin, as she turned back to him and glared.
“There. You got what you wanted,” she snarled. “Now give me my fucking cigarette.”
Devon didn't answer straight away. He looked to his hand, smiling at the strands of golden hair still twined around his fingers, those that had ripped from her scalp when she'd broken away. He lifted them to his nose and inhaled deeply, then slid his eyes back to hers.
“I never said I wanted a kiss, sugar.”
Gloria's jaw dropped. “You sure as fuck did, mother fucker! You—“
“No, sweetheart,” Devon cut her off, climbing heavily to his feet and shaking her hair free from his fingers. He took a last drag from his cigarette and tossed that aside as well. Gloria watched it hit the pavement in a shower of sparks before rolling helplessly into the gutter. Devon moved toward her slowly. “You assumed that's what I wanted, but I'm gonna need a helluva lot more before I give you anything.”
Shocked, she didn't immediately react when his hand descended to her breast, squeezing it too hard and leaving no room for doubt.
* * *
Mitch kissed her back without hesitation. He let her press him back against the wall, allowed her to press her body along the length of his and kiss him like she hadn't kissed him in months. He wrapped his arms around her like he was afraid she'd disappear any moment and kissed her back, putting everything he had left of himself into it.
Heat built rapidly in Gloria's belly as she remembered what it was like to be in Mitch's arms. She slid her hands over his chest, just remembering, needing him now more than ever.
“Call out of work,” she begged against his mouth when they finally broke for air. His chest heaved beneath her hands; his breath left him in a ragged rush against her mouth, and he started to nod, but then his eyes, darkened with lust, seemed to clear. Looking more crestfallen than she felt, he muttered an apologetic, “I can't.”
She blinked at him rapidly, curling her hands in his shirt. “Please,” she begged, sliding her body along his, tempting him. When he still looked doubtful, she snaked a hand down, palming his burgeoning erection. “Please,” she begged again, almost drowned out as he gave a breathy moan. Pressing into him harder, she felt him filling out and pressing back in turn.
“I—“ he gasped out, “But—“
Lifting herself onto her toes, she took the lobe of his ear between her teeth, letting them scrape over it and then releasing it to whisper, “I need you.”
Mitch closed his eyes as though in pain, and Gloria watched him, her breath caught in her throat.
Suddenly the baby gave another shriek, sharp and long, and startled them both back to reality. The cry twisted itself into a chorus of what Gloria had learned were hungry wails, and she groaned, dropping her head against Mitch's chest even as he sought to remove her hands from him. “Tonight,” he promised again, laying a kiss atop her head and then ushering her out toward the living room as he, himself, made his way to the bedroom, reluctantly taking the reigns and responsibility.
Gloria knew he was just as upset as she, but she wasn't in a forgiving mood.
When he finally returned, she refused to meet his gaze, instead cooing at her daughter, Amy, as she suckled hungrily. Mitch had finally knotted his tie and donned his suit jacket and was ready to walk out the door, but still Gloria wouldn't look at him.
She could hear his sigh and his goodbye to their son, still sequestered away in the kitchen, then the door creaked open. Still she didn't look up.
“Tonight, Gloria, I promise,” Mitch said one more time.
Suddenly Gloria found herself laugh, dark and bitter, shaking her head. “We can't fucking afford it, Mitch.” Before he had a chance to argue with her, she snapped her head up to glare at him. “I got fired.”
* * *
Suddenly she came to her senses and jerked back, out of reach. “Go fuck yourself. I don't need anything from you.”
She pushed past him, but he was fast, and before she'd gone two steps, he'd snatched a hank of her hair and pulled, hard. With a cry, she stumbled back only to slam back against his wide chest. Immediately his arms were around her, one hand massaging her breast while the other stroked her lower belly imploringly. His stiff erection pressed against her ass.
“Why don't you shut up and just give it to me,” Devon whispered against her ear. He squeezed her breast again, digging his fingers into her skin. “I'll show you what a real man is, not like that pansy ass mother fucker of a husba—“
He didn't even get to finish the word before Gloria's vision flashed red and she threw her head back, cracking her skull against the bridge of Devon's nose. She growled as he howled in pain, ripping away from him and spinning around in one fluid movement. His hands were on his face, muffled curses seeping through his fingers like the gush of blood from his nose, but Gloria took no mind. Laying her hands on his shoulders, she swung her knee high, smashing his balls into his pelvis, and then, as he cried out again, hands flying from his face to protect his abused manhood, she gave him a dark smile of her own, reared her arm back and slammed her fist into his jaw.
Devon dropped.
For a long moment, Gloria stood over him, breathing hard, listening to his pathetic moans, feeling better than she had in a long, long time.
Head held high, she marched back inside, scooped up her keys, purse, and—after a moment's consideration—the remains of the sandwich her husband had made her. She stepped over Devon on her way out, stopping to dig his cigarettes from his pocket. She spat in his face, and he cried out in anger, struggling to his feet as she walked away. She climbed into her old pick up to the sound of him cursing and screaming, telling her that she was fired, that he'd call the police if he ever laid eyes on her again, but she just shifted into drive, took a bite out of her sandwich and smiled.
* * *
That shut him up.
With everlasting patience, he waited for an explanation, but instead she looked down into the innocent face of their baby daughter and wondered what she might look like when she grew up, wondered what kind of woman she would become.
“Why?” Mitch said eventually. “What happened?”
“Go to work, Mitch. You're going to be late.”
“Gloria—“
Ripping her gaze away from her baby's sweet face, Gloria gave Mitch a strained smirk. “Maybe it had something to do with me kneeing him in the crotch and stealing his cigarettes.”
Mitch continued to stare at her in confusion, though she couldn't deny the hint of pride in his eyes.
Sighing, Gloria shooed him away. “Go. I'll explain later. You've got to get to work, babe.”
Still unsatisfied, but knowing she was right, and he should have left ages ago, Mitch gave a nod. “I'm still taking you out tonight,” he told her.
“Whatever Mitch, just go.”
The door creaked again, but he still didn't leave, just watched her. He watched her as she turned away, and continued watching until she looked back, an exasperated smile on her lips. “All right, what is it?”
“I love you, Gloria.”
Despite herself, her smile widened. “I love you, too.”
* * *
She walked in the door just shy of 4 a.m., three hours too early, but the house was dark and silent, her husband and children still asleep in their beds.
Dropping her purse and then herself onto the couch, she considered climbing into bed with Mitch, curling against him and just having a good cry, but then there'd be questions, and she still had to be in the kitchen by seven to start breakfast.
So instead she stayed in the living room, staring at the coffee table, and the picture there. It was taken years ago, back when she and Mitch had only just met, before mortgages and children, before they'd been cut off from their own parents and set free to flounder or flourish. Beside the picture was a vase that her mother had sent her soon after they'd been married. She'd not known what to make of it at the time, and she still didn't.
She picked it up now, considering it. It had arrived four months too late to be an actual wedding present, but that's what the card had said, along with her mother's lone signature. It didn't seem like forgiveness or acceptance, not yet, no, but it had been hope.
There were dead roses in the vase that no one had bothered to replaced, so carried it into the kitchen, disposing of the dead flowers and then placing the vase on the kitchen table. She couldn't remember the last time she'd spoken to her mother. Maybe she should call her. Would she even pick up? She'd have to take the chance, she thought, looking around the small apartment she'd come to loathe, because maybe, just maybe, she could go home.
With only a moment's hesitation, she caught up the receiver and dialed the numbers.
* * *
Long after the door closed, she continued to watch it, continued to hear his declaration of love reverberating in her mind.
She'd give him tonight. They both needed it, but more than that, she needed the memory to keep with her, a remembrance of why she married him, why she'd fallen in love with him in the first place because come the morning, she'd be gone.
End.
Author: Clay
Characters/Pairing: Mitch/Gloria, Devon
Rating/Warnings: R for cursing and attempted rape
Summary: A study in the end of a marriage, told through the desperation for a cigarette.
Word Count: 3,966
“What is wrong with you?”
Blue eyes stared up at her, widened in horror, tears rimming the bottom lid. On the floor at their feet, scattered over and around four year old Joel's tiny, battered sneakers, lay the remains of a vase—a small, Lenox piece she'd received as a wedding present. The pieces glinted up at her merrily, and Gloria felt a tremor of rage travel up her spine.
“Are you fucking stupid?”
Joel took a step back, his small mouth forming a perfect O. The baby let out a startled shriek from the next room, eggs sizzled on the stove, and Mitch called to her from the far end of the apartment.
She ignored it all.
Irrational anger threatened to overtake her, and she darted out a hand, snatching at Joel's thin wrist, pulling him forward and pointing down at the shards of crystal.
“Why did you do that?” she screamed into his face. He gasped, a tear streaking down his cheek. “Why? Why would you do that!?”
“Gloria,” Mitch's voice came again, softer, closer now. “Gloria, calm down.”
She released Joel and spun on Mitch, and she very well knew how badly she was overreacting. She knew she should stop, take a moment to collect herself and then clean the mess and finish breakfast, but after the night she'd had—
“Do you see this?” she yelled instead, her worn loafers crunching over the broken pieces. “He does this on purpose! He's trying to drive me insane!”
For a moment, Mitch just stared at her. His oxford was buttoned up to the neck, his tie limp around his shoulders and waiting to be knotted, and he stared at her, his clear blue eyes that he'd given to their son sad and confused.
“Gloria,” he said again, advancing himself now to lay a hand on her shoulder. Starting, Gloria reached out and slapped him across the face. Shocked speechless, he could only reel back and lift a hand to his abused cheek.
“Don't you fucking patronize me, Mitch. Don't you fucking dare.” Still Mitch watched her, his mouth hanging open, and with a deep sigh, Gloria shoved past him and fled.
Devon would go outside every hour or so to light up, leaving her behind the counter. She stared at him through the smudged glass doors, watched the smoke and moths alike flit around the tarnished light from the storefront, blazing 7-11 in all its glory to the dregs of the world actually cognizant at 3 a.m.
It was just she and him almost every night. He sat around, the omnipotent night manager while he told her what to do, what to stock, where to clean, his busy little worker bee scampering about the store, ringing up the red eyed hippies and working boys like herself. Those last ones she liked quite a bit: older men that reminded her of her daddy, coming in off the night shift with slumped shoulders and a warm smile, just looking for a pack of smokes or a bottle of coke to keep them going until their bed could find them.
But customers were few and far between, and at 3:02 on the dot, every morning, he'd scarf down a hot dog and settle down on the folding chair out front for his lunch time smoke. More often than not, she'd be on her break at the same time. Mitch had made her a turkey sandwich with lettuce. She chewed slowly, perched on the counter and watching Devon, captivated by the lazy drift of smoke from his mouth.
Devon—God, she hated him. It wasn't just that he paraded around the small store like a fucking God, no, that she could handle. She'd dealt with it plenty in her day. Maybe it was the way he stared at her tits every time she was in eye shot. Maybe it was the way he'd lick his lips while he spoke, his small, fat tongue darting out to lap at the corners of too thin lips, like someone had taken a knife and slashed a crooked line across his face.
Maybe it was a lot of things, but probably—most definitely—it was the simple fact of having to watch him sit out on the sidewalk hour after hour, night after night, and smoke his fucking cigarettes.
God, she needed a cigarette.
The bathroom door slamming behind her reverberated throughout the small apartment. Safe inside, Gloria searched her pockets, trying in vain to block out the wails of her children, and the soothing tones of her husband as he attempted to comfort them.
Finally she withdrew a pack of Marlboro reds from her khakis. She took a moment to look over the dented pack, and, flipping it open, she found it three quarters full. Slipping one cigarette free, she dug her hand back into her pocket and came back with a cheap blue lighter, but her hands were shaking too badly to produce a flame.
With an angry cry, she tossed the cigarettes and lighter alike to the floor before dropping down herself, pulling her knees up and leaning back against the cold porcelain of the tub. A bulb was out above the bathroom mirror. They'd need to buy a new one.
Looking down to her hands again—at the red, swollen knuckles that still throbbed dully—watching the way her hands trembled, her nerves shot, she bowed her head and cried.
She hadn't smoked in years, not since getting pregnant with Joel. Mitch had followed shortly after, giving it up as well so as not to tempt her, and that had been all well and good for a year. Maybe two. Then she started working nights, Amy was born and she had to go right back to work because they couldn't afford for her not to, and there was less sex and more fighting, and she was always and forever tired. So, so fucking tired of her life and everything and everyone in it. Was it so much to ask for one, just one cigarette?
They didn't have the money for her to start smoking again, so instead she sat and watched Devon smoke.
Halfway through her sandwich, she lay it down and pushed off the counter, the pair of worn loafers she'd commandeered from her husband, one size too large, landing with a smack on the dirty tile.
She never took her eyes off Devon's mouth, off the ribbon of smoke he blew so carelessly toward the night sky. Without realizing it, she was out the door, the bell jingling her arrival, and Devon was looking up in curiosity. He smiled.
It wasn't a nice smile. It was dark and full of the threat of malice, and she loathed him more every second even as she stepped forward and asked, “Can I get a drag on that?”
Devon's grin widened, showing yellowed teeth, and she felt sick.
“You want some?” he asked unnecessarily, the last word drawn out in drawl, his smile widening further. He hoisted the cigarette between his thick fingers; the filter shone with his saliva.
“Yeah.”
“Whatcha gonna gimme for it?”
She frowned in slight confusion, watched his eyes as they roamed her body, centering on her breasts stretching the material of her uniform obscenely. The shirt was half a size too small, but when she'd brought that up, Devon had told her that she'd need to pay if she wanted a new one, and eventually she'd given up.
Running her fingers through her unwashed hair, and feeling like a fucking street walker, Gloria closed her eyes and let out a breath. “What do you want?”
He chuckled darkly and raised an eyebrow. “You know what I want.”
By the time she'd calmed herself, her hands had ceased their trembling, and she picked up a discarded cigarette. It looked so innocuous in the yellowed half-light. Chuckling mirthlessly, she lifted the cigarette to her lips, and, finally managing to light it, inhaled the smoke deeply. Bitter and heady, it calmed her nerves further and left her feeling light headed. It had been years.
Mitch's voice filtered through the door, calling her name again, and Gloria sighed and shut her eyes. “Go away.”
He fell silent, but she could still feel his presence on the other side of the door, could feel him waiting. Finally, he said, “I finished breakfast for Joel. He's eating now.” He paused again, then continued, “He's very upset, Gloria. He thinks you hate him.”
“Well, maybe he shouldn't try my fucking patience, then, now should he?”
“Gloria,” Mitch admonished, though he sounded more concerned than angry.
She ignored him and ran her fingers through her hair. It felt stringy and greasy between her fingers; she hadn't had a chance to shower in two days. With a sigh, she bundled it up in a loose bun and then settled back again, taking another drag on the cigarette. She leaned her head back, blowing smoke toward the ceiling.
“I swept up the mess,” Mitch said after another moment.
Gloria sighed. “Good for you.”
He hesitated again. The seconds ticked by. “I need to go to work now.”
“Then go.”
“Gloria...”
The rattle of the brass knob drew her attention, and she snapped her head down as the door swung in, frowning. Mitch frowned, too, when he finally caught sight of her. His gaze immediately darted to the cigarette in her hand, and she looked away.
“Did you buy that?”
She gave a quick shake of the head and then muttered, “Got 'em from Devon.”
Mitch's frown deepened. “Devon's buying you cigarettes now, is he?”
Gloria snorted, shaking her head and rolling eyes. Finally she turned back to him, mocking disbelief in her gaze. “What, are you jealous?”
Mitch furrowed his brow and opened his mouth to speak, but he kept his tongue, and snapped his mouth shut again, just watching her with a frown. He knelt before her and reached out, plucking the cigarette from her hand. She let him. Turning it around, he took a long drag himself, holding in the smoke and then blowing it out with closed eyes, his mouth upturned in pleasure.
Watching him, Gloria couldn't help but smile herself.
Opening his eyes, he caught her smile and returned it, stubbing the cigarette out on the tile. “Better than sex, right?” he murmured.
Gloria shrugged. “I wouldn't remember.”
That wiped the smile from his face, and Mitch sighed, climbing back to his feet. “Gloria—“
“That was unnecessary. I'm sorry.”
“No, I—“
Gloria got to her feet as well, making to pass him, but he held out an arm, blocking her exit without actually touching her. She snapped her head around to look at him, wondering if the sadness that shown in his eyes was a reflection of her own. “Go to work, Mitch,” she mumbled.
He nodded slowly, and the hand that had been blocking her lifted to caress her check. “Tonight,” he promised.
She knew what he'd want. Of course she knew. He'd made it blatantly clear on more than one occasion, in the way he brushed against her constantly and without provocation, in his veiled and not-so-veiled comments, and, of course, in the way his eyes were consistently glued to her breasts.
“Fine,” she muttered, flipping her eyes open and scowling. “One kiss.”
“A kiss, hmm?” Devon licked his lips. She imagined his pale tongue to be wet and sticky, like that of a frog.
“One kiss.”
“C'mere then, sugar.”
It wasn't worth it, she told herself. Nothing was worth this. She thought of Mitch, of his sweet smile and his innocent demeanor, of how he tried so, so hard each and every day to make something of himself, to care for his wife and children. She thought of the hurt in his eyes if he knew she'd whored herself out for nothing more than a stupid drag on a stupid cigarette—not because she'd betrayed him but because he couldn't provide for her himself. She hated herself for even the possibility of making him feel that way.
Gloria bent low over Devon. He smelled like piss and tobacco, and she slammed her eyes shut and kissed him.
“Tonight what?” she asked, leaning into his palm, her eyes stinging.
Mitch smiled at her, slight, but genuine and lifted his other hand, cradling her cheeks. “We'll get a baby sitter; we'll go out on a proper date, and...and we'll make love.”
Gloria lowered her eyes. “We can't afford a baby sitter.”
“We'll do it anyway—“
“No, Mitch—“
“Yes,” Mitch whispered huskily, then dipped his head to lay a soft kiss against her mouth. It was gentle, chaste, and full of the desperation of a man who knew his marriage was falling apart. “Yes,” he whispered again, almost begging now as he closed his eyes and lay his forehead against hers.
The stinging in her eyes transferred to a hard lump at the base of her throat. She swallowed once and allowed her tears to fall as she pushed forward, grabbing his collar and kissing him.
It was only meant to be a peck on the lips, but his hand on the back of her neck held her in place as his thick tongue squashed against her lips, seeking entrance. She wretched at his stench, gasping and gagging, allowing his tongue to touch her, feeling off balance enough to allow him to pull her closer, his nails digging into the flesh of her neck, his fingers twining in her hair, twisting painfully. With every desperate breath, she inhaled his scent and taste. The urge to vomit swelled in her throat, and with a burst of strength, she shoved, dislodging herself and stumbling backward a few paces. Breathing hard, she wiped a the back of her hand across her mouth, and then turned her head and spat. She caught his eyes, his sick grin, as she turned back to him and glared.
“There. You got what you wanted,” she snarled. “Now give me my fucking cigarette.”
Devon didn't answer straight away. He looked to his hand, smiling at the strands of golden hair still twined around his fingers, those that had ripped from her scalp when she'd broken away. He lifted them to his nose and inhaled deeply, then slid his eyes back to hers.
“I never said I wanted a kiss, sugar.”
Gloria's jaw dropped. “You sure as fuck did, mother fucker! You—“
“No, sweetheart,” Devon cut her off, climbing heavily to his feet and shaking her hair free from his fingers. He took a last drag from his cigarette and tossed that aside as well. Gloria watched it hit the pavement in a shower of sparks before rolling helplessly into the gutter. Devon moved toward her slowly. “You assumed that's what I wanted, but I'm gonna need a helluva lot more before I give you anything.”
Shocked, she didn't immediately react when his hand descended to her breast, squeezing it too hard and leaving no room for doubt.
Mitch kissed her back without hesitation. He let her press him back against the wall, allowed her to press her body along the length of his and kiss him like she hadn't kissed him in months. He wrapped his arms around her like he was afraid she'd disappear any moment and kissed her back, putting everything he had left of himself into it.
Heat built rapidly in Gloria's belly as she remembered what it was like to be in Mitch's arms. She slid her hands over his chest, just remembering, needing him now more than ever.
“Call out of work,” she begged against his mouth when they finally broke for air. His chest heaved beneath her hands; his breath left him in a ragged rush against her mouth, and he started to nod, but then his eyes, darkened with lust, seemed to clear. Looking more crestfallen than she felt, he muttered an apologetic, “I can't.”
She blinked at him rapidly, curling her hands in his shirt. “Please,” she begged, sliding her body along his, tempting him. When he still looked doubtful, she snaked a hand down, palming his burgeoning erection. “Please,” she begged again, almost drowned out as he gave a breathy moan. Pressing into him harder, she felt him filling out and pressing back in turn.
“I—“ he gasped out, “But—“
Lifting herself onto her toes, she took the lobe of his ear between her teeth, letting them scrape over it and then releasing it to whisper, “I need you.”
Mitch closed his eyes as though in pain, and Gloria watched him, her breath caught in her throat.
Suddenly the baby gave another shriek, sharp and long, and startled them both back to reality. The cry twisted itself into a chorus of what Gloria had learned were hungry wails, and she groaned, dropping her head against Mitch's chest even as he sought to remove her hands from him. “Tonight,” he promised again, laying a kiss atop her head and then ushering her out toward the living room as he, himself, made his way to the bedroom, reluctantly taking the reigns and responsibility.
Gloria knew he was just as upset as she, but she wasn't in a forgiving mood.
When he finally returned, she refused to meet his gaze, instead cooing at her daughter, Amy, as she suckled hungrily. Mitch had finally knotted his tie and donned his suit jacket and was ready to walk out the door, but still Gloria wouldn't look at him.
She could hear his sigh and his goodbye to their son, still sequestered away in the kitchen, then the door creaked open. Still she didn't look up.
“Tonight, Gloria, I promise,” Mitch said one more time.
Suddenly Gloria found herself laugh, dark and bitter, shaking her head. “We can't fucking afford it, Mitch.” Before he had a chance to argue with her, she snapped her head up to glare at him. “I got fired.”
Suddenly she came to her senses and jerked back, out of reach. “Go fuck yourself. I don't need anything from you.”
She pushed past him, but he was fast, and before she'd gone two steps, he'd snatched a hank of her hair and pulled, hard. With a cry, she stumbled back only to slam back against his wide chest. Immediately his arms were around her, one hand massaging her breast while the other stroked her lower belly imploringly. His stiff erection pressed against her ass.
“Why don't you shut up and just give it to me,” Devon whispered against her ear. He squeezed her breast again, digging his fingers into her skin. “I'll show you what a real man is, not like that pansy ass mother fucker of a husba—“
He didn't even get to finish the word before Gloria's vision flashed red and she threw her head back, cracking her skull against the bridge of Devon's nose. She growled as he howled in pain, ripping away from him and spinning around in one fluid movement. His hands were on his face, muffled curses seeping through his fingers like the gush of blood from his nose, but Gloria took no mind. Laying her hands on his shoulders, she swung her knee high, smashing his balls into his pelvis, and then, as he cried out again, hands flying from his face to protect his abused manhood, she gave him a dark smile of her own, reared her arm back and slammed her fist into his jaw.
Devon dropped.
For a long moment, Gloria stood over him, breathing hard, listening to his pathetic moans, feeling better than she had in a long, long time.
Head held high, she marched back inside, scooped up her keys, purse, and—after a moment's consideration—the remains of the sandwich her husband had made her. She stepped over Devon on her way out, stopping to dig his cigarettes from his pocket. She spat in his face, and he cried out in anger, struggling to his feet as she walked away. She climbed into her old pick up to the sound of him cursing and screaming, telling her that she was fired, that he'd call the police if he ever laid eyes on her again, but she just shifted into drive, took a bite out of her sandwich and smiled.
That shut him up.
With everlasting patience, he waited for an explanation, but instead she looked down into the innocent face of their baby daughter and wondered what she might look like when she grew up, wondered what kind of woman she would become.
“Why?” Mitch said eventually. “What happened?”
“Go to work, Mitch. You're going to be late.”
“Gloria—“
Ripping her gaze away from her baby's sweet face, Gloria gave Mitch a strained smirk. “Maybe it had something to do with me kneeing him in the crotch and stealing his cigarettes.”
Mitch continued to stare at her in confusion, though she couldn't deny the hint of pride in his eyes.
Sighing, Gloria shooed him away. “Go. I'll explain later. You've got to get to work, babe.”
Still unsatisfied, but knowing she was right, and he should have left ages ago, Mitch gave a nod. “I'm still taking you out tonight,” he told her.
“Whatever Mitch, just go.”
The door creaked again, but he still didn't leave, just watched her. He watched her as she turned away, and continued watching until she looked back, an exasperated smile on her lips. “All right, what is it?”
“I love you, Gloria.”
Despite herself, her smile widened. “I love you, too.”
She walked in the door just shy of 4 a.m., three hours too early, but the house was dark and silent, her husband and children still asleep in their beds.
Dropping her purse and then herself onto the couch, she considered climbing into bed with Mitch, curling against him and just having a good cry, but then there'd be questions, and she still had to be in the kitchen by seven to start breakfast.
So instead she stayed in the living room, staring at the coffee table, and the picture there. It was taken years ago, back when she and Mitch had only just met, before mortgages and children, before they'd been cut off from their own parents and set free to flounder or flourish. Beside the picture was a vase that her mother had sent her soon after they'd been married. She'd not known what to make of it at the time, and she still didn't.
She picked it up now, considering it. It had arrived four months too late to be an actual wedding present, but that's what the card had said, along with her mother's lone signature. It didn't seem like forgiveness or acceptance, not yet, no, but it had been hope.
There were dead roses in the vase that no one had bothered to replaced, so carried it into the kitchen, disposing of the dead flowers and then placing the vase on the kitchen table. She couldn't remember the last time she'd spoken to her mother. Maybe she should call her. Would she even pick up? She'd have to take the chance, she thought, looking around the small apartment she'd come to loathe, because maybe, just maybe, she could go home.
With only a moment's hesitation, she caught up the receiver and dialed the numbers.
Long after the door closed, she continued to watch it, continued to hear his declaration of love reverberating in her mind.
She'd give him tonight. They both needed it, but more than that, she needed the memory to keep with her, a remembrance of why she married him, why she'd fallen in love with him in the first place because come the morning, she'd be gone.
End.