Getting Her Back

It’s over too soon, and I come back to myself with Christian lying beside me on the bed. I don’t remember him being there. I gently turn on my side, and we stare at each other for a moment. I can’t believe that he’s here, that he’s willing to do what he’s doing. I never thought I could feel like this again, and I don’t know if it’s going to last, but I don’t ever want it to stop. “Kiss me,” I say breathlessly.

Christian’s face goes still with shock. “But you said—”

“Kiss me,” I say again.

He only hesitates for a second, and then he’s kissing me, and I’m in heaven. Christian pulls me close against his body, and I can feel everything about him even though he’s clothed. It’s familiar and warm and something clicks deep inside. This is perfect. His hands roam my body, not in a way that’s going to have us fucking again, but an exploration. A relearning. He presses me back onto the pillows, and I love the weight of him. It’s a sensation I didn’t realize I desperately missed.

Christian’s tongue grazes my lips, and I open to him. Every last breath in my body is stolen away, and I kiss him back just as hard.

It feels like forever, and it’s still not enough. Even though we’re not kissing, we don’t separate, and I’m suddenly tired. Exhausted. I let myself slip down towards sleep, warmed by Christian’s body. Just for a few minutes, I tell myself. Then I’ll go home. I just need a little bit more.

* * *

I wake in the morning to an empty bed, morning light streaking through the windows. I’m covered in a blanket now, but Christian is nowhere to be found. I flop back against the pillows, trying to make sense of last night. That was insane, and yet it wasn’t. Did that change things between us? It must have. There’s no other choice. But it’s not something I can just text him about.

Friday. I can ask him Friday. I make a mental promise that I won’t let myself chicken out of it this time.

I put on my clothes and grab my bag. I won’t have enough time to get home and back before work, so I hope no one notices I’m wearing the same clothes. As I step into the living room, I see a piece of paper on the coffee table. It’s Christian’s drawing of me. I swear it’s more completed than when I saw it last night. I look…amazing. Alluring and virginal and empowered and sultry. He’s drawn me like I’m a goddess, and the fact that anyone could come up with this as an interpretation for me is…stunning. There’s a note on the coffee table too. Less of a note than a message, only two words.

Love, Christian.

15

Six Years Ago

It’s a beautiful summer day in New York City. So beautiful, in fact, that it takes some of the pain out of an awful chore like having to walk through Midtown. Fifth Avenue is never the best place to be, but for my favorite beauty store, sometimes compromises have to be made.

New lipstick and mascara secured, I’m walking downtown when something catches my eye. There’s a man, and he’s sketching in front of one of the skyscrapers. People sketching isn’t uncommon in New York City. After all, it’s a city of artists. However, it’s rare that I see someone like this.

He doesn’t have a sketchbook, he has a giant wooden panel that sits on his lap. I think for me it would be unwieldy but it seems like it’s the perfect size for him. Next to him he has a case full of art supplies: pencils, charcoal, everything he would need.

As I draw closer, I see that he’s drawing a shockingly detailed perspective of the building. It captures every detail with grace and poise, without being too over the top. I myself have never been able to capture anything quite like that. Then again, I’m really not that good. I come up behind him and stop to watch. He has a delicate touch with pencil that I find very intriguing. He seems to be able to make it do exactly what he wants, and I’m a little jealous. I always feel a little out of control when I hold a pencil. Like it does what it wants and I’m at its mercy.

I wonder if he does this for a living or if he’s just a student? He’s older than I would expect for a college student, but this is the city of dreams, and no one can be discounted here. I only saw his drawing at first, but now I glance at the artist and I realize that he’s attractive. More than attractive, he’s smoking hot. The kind of hot you find in movies and advertisements and not usually sitting on the streets of New York City. His face is a work of art the same level as the one that he’s drawing.