Julian Aidan | Jordan Wester
“What you’ve said is fucking insulting.”
“It’s the truth. What you do with you life, is your choice…but once it starts to affect me…once your life (she made a circling motion with her hand around his frame) starts to hurt mine (her hand now circling her), I must attack it. I have to defend myself…”
While she spoke he rose from bed. He bent down, lifted his clothes from the floor, and silently stepped into the pant legs of the jeans he had filled well with muscle at the time they met, but which now hung loose on his frailing body.
-“…WHERE ARE YOU GOING?”
“I need fresh air. You can continue on though…”
“No, I prefer we look at each other when we talk…”
“You prefer it, why, because it’s better for you?”
He continued to dress. After sliding on his shoes, he brought forth his jacket and reached each arm into the safety of his overcoat. Curled on the mattress, she hid her pain in the fluffy mass she hope would suffocate the damage.
In silence, they worked at solving THE PROBLEM. Straight out into the corridor he went, while she remained still, listening for the front door to close behind him. As soon as the latch locked out their love, she kicked free from force that paralyzed her, and fled toward the door. In haste, she ran toward the living room window clutching her robe over her tired body. Unhinging the separate doors, she forced the French window apart, and thrusted herself over the ledge calling out his name just as he was cycled past below her. Her cinematic desperation was flawless.
The man’s name however, fell upon deaf ears. He did not stop nor turn back from his decision. He left her. Not because she was wrong to challenge him, but because she was rude to do so with such unfiltered honesty. Despite her adrenaline’s pleading, she quietly closed the window. Turning toward her bedroom, she walked gracefully back to bed. She knew it was not over between them. She’d give him some time to cool off, then call the bastard. Men always hated to be told.