She kept whispering about the sociological implications of fucking around in somebody else's' room, incessant rambling about facts and concepts and theories which slid right off his ears. He wished she'd just shut up already and let him kiss her, but as she kept readjusting her classes and lecturing him about how it was so so so so wrong to do anything in a room not his own, he became bored, anxious, fidgety and frustrated. The way the computer monitors' light ricocheted off her nose ring made him all the more frustrated. God, why can't she just shut up? Kiss me. Kiss me. Anywhere. Take my hand. It's a room. Just a room. A room that was occupied by other people before the current owner. A room that was occupied by other people before the previous owner.
What does it matter that it's not his room, the place where he lays his head down every night? It's a revolving door, emptiness erased in every year by a set of different people.
She kept talking and he started to fade. He yawned and closed his eyes.
1 comment:
I like this. Its written extremely well.
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