Under the lights, amongst the jazz shoes, blistered feet and caked faces of the dance troupe, you pretend you’re someone else. The melody begins and your body responds. You allow it to weave into your skin until it’s made itself home in your soul. It is that dance that drives you. It is that dance that will continue to save you. It is that dance that will release you.
Until your heart can no longer shut him out, even after he’s pushed you away.
You can’t let him in again, can you? There’s only so much of your heart left to give.
She is the reason I can’t stay. The reason that the covered bruises, the lies and the hurt are too much. I am no good for her. But when I see her again, I can’t stay away. Like Dante said, “The path to paradise begins in hell.”
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The next morning, I rise eagerly to make brunch. We usually did it on Sundays, but I was too keen to welcome her. I want to full-steam us into buddy-buddies and hope like hell she is glad for it, too. Plus, the more I keep myself busy, the less chance I have of crashing everything to the side and just jumping her. It has been a long time since I wanted something like I want her.
I go to the bathroom and wash my face and brush my teeth. I keep my PJ pants on, but throw a T-shirt over my head, too. Brunch is all about being casual and relaxed in our house, so PJs are a must. Brushing of the teeth is also a must. There is no way that I want to subject her to Satan’s arse breath first thing in the morning.
I open the fridge and reach for the eggs, bacon, and mushrooms. Placing them on the island bench, I turn the oven on to warm up for the hash browns. I can’t remember how she likes her eggs, so I decide I’ll go poached and try to impress her. Yeah, I am being a moron, but I want to wow her. Placing the continental-style bread on the grill, I retrieve the hash browns and line a tray with them. Once I have chopped up the mushrooms and sorted out the eggs and bacon, I look at the brunch I’ve prepped and smile. Yeah, she is going to think I am awesome.
Whistling, I head towards her door to call her up. It is already , so I figure she’ll be awake. Knocking, I wait for her to open it and after a while, I notice that there aren’t any noises.
Huh, I think. She’s probably asleep.
Turning the handle, I begin saying, “Good morning, roomie, it’s time for your welcome back to…” instead, I stand agape as I stare at Bea’s bed. I don’t see anything else but her. Sprawled between covers, the tip of the doona lays across her midsection, while her right leg has curled out. Most of her body is exposed and draped in an emerald green and black laced silky bodice and fucking short nightie. It’s like
’s Secret has decided to
drop one of their angels in that bed. Her hair is draped all over the back of
her pillow and her left arm is up and curled under her chin. It’s a scene from
a wet dream, only hotter. Holy shit—if she opens her eyes and sees me here, I’m
I step from foot to foot trying to negotiate which way to turn so that I don’t wake her. I feel like a clumsy bear in a cave. Taking another look to check that she’s asleep, I turn while keeping my eyes on her, only to knock a photo frame from her bookshelf behind me with my elbow. It crashes down onto the floor and luckily doesn’t smash. Before I can grab it, I hear a startled gasp and inwardly cringe as I feel her eyes on me. Resigned to the inevitable, I bend over and pick up the frame, repositioning it on the shelf while mentally calling it a fucker and turn to face her. She is sitting up in bed, with her arm holding back her wavy hair from her face.
“I’m so sorry, Bea,” I stammer. “I tried knocking and didn’t hear anything, and by the time I realised you were asleep, I knocked over this frame.” I finish, pointing at the offending frame as though it is the one to blame. Not me, the pervy housemate.
She clears her throat and croaks, “S’okay. I should get up anyway. What did you need me for?”
Oh, you know … just wanted to strip you naked … Clearing my throat, I gesture to outside her door.
“It’s brunch time, so I wanted to get you. It’s all ready to go.”
I’m staring at her body. I know I shouldn’t, but fuck it, I can’t stop.
“I have hash browns in the oven and I’ll have your legs, argh—” I stammer. “I mean, eggs ready soon.” I turn quickly and march out before I make an even bigger fool of myself. Legs? Could I be even more of a moron?
M R Field is an author from Rural Victoria and has completed a Bachelor's degree with Honours from
, Latrobe University . After growing up with the river at her
front door, she returned back to her hometown after many years of living in the
city. She now lives a tranquil lifestyle with her husband and two young
M R Field has always held a love for writing, filling journals as a child which progressed to more eloquent pieces as an adult. After ten years of creative instruction, she decided to turn these ideas into manuscripts. She adores creating new story lines and is a big fan of a happily ever after, but believes strongly in making her characters work for it.
She has recently decided to join the independent publishing world with her debut novel, Fragments, due for release on
December 8th, 2014.
There is a giveaway for signed paperback and a $10 Amazon gift card