The words over at Three Word Wednesday are erratic, luminous and omen.
He watches faint light and shadows from passing traffic crawl across the ceiling in the dark, his night vision cut each time she takes a new drag on her cigarette, its smoldering end blossoming, luminous.
Her head rests on his shoulder, right on the bone, and his arm has gone numb to the fingers. The discomfort gives Mark Travers something else to think about, other than the ragged little hole just below the ribs, where the .25-caliber bullet went through and lodged somewhere, probably the liver, he thinks.
Danielle DeMente’s breath comes and goes in erratic gulps. He listens to the cadence and she seems to be winding down. He can’t see it, not from this angle, but his fountain pen is lodged between her ribs and he’s pretty sure he’s perforated Danielle’s pericardium.
Mark coughs once, twice and winces through the pain. Danielle repositions herself back into his shoulder, sighs between puffs.
He should have seen this moment coming. The argument was over nothing, really, the usual stuff. Mark didn’t listen to her and that made Danielle feel small somehow. Mark countered, like he always did, throwing back into Danielle’s face the infidelity, even if it was a year ago, and not much of an affair. She’d kissed a guy at the bar on a bet, a bet Mark had made with her, and he still wasn’t over it.
Their lovemaking began with trading slaps to the face, progresses, ripped clothing, crescendo, orgasm(s), now this. Waiting out the inevitable in the dark.
Looking back, Mark sees it as an omen, the slaps. The sex took on a frenetic energy that he can’t remember it ever taking. Danielle becomes a beast, rough, pulling hair and pinching his nipples. She bucks against him, straddles him, takes him brusquely by both hand and shoves him into her.
Mark feeds off her, grabbing her rough by her auburn hair, taking great handfuls of curls and bends her face to the bed, flipping Danielle over and taking her from behind, knowing its her least favorite position. From this angle, he sticks a thumb where she least expects it and she howls, animalistic.
Danielle fights, kicks and Mark falls backward onto the bed. She jumps off, turns his slick chrome-and-leather desk chair around and points. Mark gets up pushes her back with both hands to her shoulders and sits. Danielle hits him, a punch that splits his lip. Though the searing pain, he feels her thighs begin to slide damp against his. She rises, falls onto him like she’s falling on a sword.
Mark hears the shot and before he can react he’s consumed with waves of his orgasm. He’s still feeling bursts of pleasure when his fingers touch his Mont Blanc. He wraps his hand around it and plunges the silver tip into Danielle’s chest.
She drops the gun and takes handfuls of his hair and brings her face close into his. He watches her cum, watches greedily in the reflection of her tear-streaked eyes.
Everything becomes quiet, except for their ragged breath. Mark gets up from the chair and Danielle laces her fingers together around his neck and they rise together and thus fall back onto bed. He slides his way up and puts his head on a pillow. She takes up her place on his shoulder and lights a cigarette.
“Once in a lifetime,” Danielle says in a whisper, her head turning ever so slightly to the left. A final wet breath escapes.
“Funny,” Mark says to the ceiling. “That’s exactly what I was going to say.”