He opened his eyes, disturbed in his sleep by his girlfriend’s return. The room was just as he’d left it. Clothes lay piled. All around the king size bed on which he slept. The bed covers and sheets lay disorderly and in piles between him and the door. Old chocolate bar and candy wrappers lay piled on the headboard, adding to the mess. The lights, both in the room and hallway, were lighting the white walls quite clearly.
She stood in the doorway, tall and lean, perhaps more beautiful then he had last seen her. “Did you miss me?” She asked, her voice low and sultry.
“Of course,” he replied, his voice was dry and cracked from sleep. It had been a couple days since he’d last seen her, since he had last heard her voice. He was happy to see her again. “Welcome home, my love.”
She stepped forward into the room, moving towards him with that walk. She didn’t blink at the mess, but then it was normal for her. “Its good to be home. It’s been a long time.”
He smiled,”It sure has.”
She paused three feet from the door. She began to unbutton her blouse, removing it.
Something seemed wrong here, but he put it out of his mind.
Her shirt, a plain white blouse, fell to the floor, instantly lost among the piles of clothes. She smiled that wonderful smile. She was now clad in tight jeans and a bra.
They had been together for years, but he still loved and admired that body. She reached around behind her to undo the brassiere; he recognized the movements of her arms. He couldn’t wait to see them again. The bra came undone, and she pulled the support straps, first from the right shoulder, then from the left. As it fell away from her body, those breasts were bare, firm with large nipples that thrust out in the cool air. The brassiere joined the blouse.
“How have you been?” she asked, drawing his gaze away from her chest and back to her face.
What he said was, “Good.” There was something that tickled the back of his mind, something he should definitely remember, but how could it be important now?
She turned away from him, that long bare back reflecting the lights from the ceiling. He could see her jeans, held tight around the ass he loved, give a little, and then a little more. As she slowly pulled the jeans down, she slowly bent over, revealing a black thong between her delectable cheeks.
He licked his suddenly dry lips. “How was your trip?”
“Does it really matter?” She asked turning to face him. Her eyes were dancing. He could see the front of the thong and that bulge that represented her pubic mound
That tickling at the back of his mind was becoming more persistent, more distracting, he mentally swatted uselessly at that particular fly.
“It always matters,” he said.
He saw her climb onto the bed, and felt the weight of her upon the mattress. The scent of her filled his nostrils, her perfume, deodorant and shampoo. “Don’t you want me?”
“Yes,” he smiled, and she moved towards him still. Her breath seemed to tickle his ear.
And then the buzzing became louder and louder until it drowned out the scene. Reflexively he put his hands over his ears. It became a pain that shook him down to the very core of his being. He knew in a flash what the problem was, and it cut him to the core.
“You’re dead, You’re dead, You’re dead….”
“Paul,” she said
“You’re dead, you’re dead….”
Breathing hard and repeating those words, Paul opened his eyes. His heart was pounding, hammering away in his chest. Cold sweat poured from his body and lay pooled, soaking into the pillowcase. He remembered in an instant all the things that happened in last two days.
He remembered the phone call about the car accident. He remembered the trip to the morgue, and the last time he saw her. Outside, the cold winter rain fell, with a dull patter upon the roof of the flat.
Jeremiad is defined as a long mournful complaint, or on one site, a lamentation. It fits, even if a bit forced.
I pulled this bit of fiction out of my old writings. I was too lazy today to give a witty anecdote.