Robert likes her. Like really, really, really likes her. Not in the sappy, all heart eyes kind of a way—except maybe a little, but not like romantically, okay—but the hey, I’m happy you stick around kind of a way.
She's easy, like water. Soft, all gentle caress, flowing effortlessly through everything. Patient: even dripping water wears away a stone, and nothing in the end can stand against it.
It’s interesting, especially to someone who is more or less used to, when facing an obstacle, giving up. He’s not sure why he is like that with everything, but it’s also very hard to be deep when you are two beers and one of those green-looking drinks with just a too big of a splash of vodka and three shots into the night. Even the bartender is starting to look lovely at this point, and he’s a dude.
“A’ight, so, if you got a million quid”, Robert starts as they stumble out of the bar, she in her high heels and he offering his arm for her. His Finnish is long gone, out of the office for the night.
“A million quid, yeah?” she humours him, grabbing his arm.
“A million quid, right, and like, every time you see someone you’re attracted to, you’d, like, vomit a lil in your mouth.”
“What do you mean by attractive? If I like them?”
“Like, if you would... shag them.”
“How much vomit are we talking about? Just projectile vomiting all over the place or?”
“Nah, like... two ounces maybe, like you could just swallow it back I guess”, he shrugs.
“That’s gross”, she says.
“I probably wouldn’t do it. Or, I mean, a million quid is a million quid. Maybe I would do it. You could, like, learn new things about yourself. Like there’s a shirtless dude jogging about and I’d be, like, oh, so that’s a thing now. I’d just carry mouthwash or something.”
“You’re gross”, she says.
“Yeah”, he says.
Her arm feels warm around his, and it’s ten different kinds of nice, and he’s almost sad when they find themselves back at the apartment. Although he is happy to kick off his shoes and Mikaela, she’s probably even happier.
“You’re thinking really loudly”, she murmurs, at 5 in the morning, his head tucked in the crook of her neck. He blinks up at her jaw, because he wasn’t really thinking that loud, was he now? He shifts, his hips nearly hanging off the couch.
“You’re nice”, he says.
“Okay”, she says, because she’s not as drunk as he is.
“I like you”, he says.
“Okay”, she says, again.
“Not like that”, he says.
“Okay”, she says, one last time.
The silence that follows is only little awkward, but she’s soft and makes a half decent pillow so Robert thinks it’s all good in the end. And the couch isn’t even that comfortable. They could always move, or he could move, or she could move, and they could be comfortable together or as individuals, but somehow even the idea of moving is tiring already.
He tries not to think so loudly afterwards, but it’s kind of difficult with his heart pounding in his chest and the alcohol turning his mind into just one big blur. Everything is so loud anyway. The beat of that annoyingly popular Finnish song that was playing back in the bar, the warm memories of that one specific summer, the paranoid worry over Harry and her leg, the steady thump of Mikaela’s heart and the slow pace of her breath.
“D’you think we’ll get back together?” he asks when it becomes too much. Her breath hitches, a tell-tale that she’s awake, and she shifts under his weight. She sighs, and then there’s a noise that vaguely sounds like a question mark, so he takes that as a permission to go on.
“Britta and I?”
She sighs again, and this time it sounds like she doesn’t want to hear about it. Which is, like, fair and sh!t, considering she’s been hearing a lot about it. Kind of, at least.
“That’s up to you”, she murmurs.
He thinks about it.
Robert doesn’t really drink too much too often. Sometimes, like after leaving in the middle of that pre-Christmas party in December, he wonders why exactly that is, but now, as the sunlight pushes through the cracks in the blinds and Mikaela is breathing far too loudly and he feels like he wants to vomit and do everything in his power to keep himself from vomiting at the same time and it’s hot and his skin feels sticky and she’s really warm against him and his mouth tastes like he ate tobacco ashes for midnight snack, he remembers why. He kind of wants to push her off, off himself and off the couch, but he reckons it wouldn’t be very nice since it is her couch and her apartment and her, well, everything. And she’s on the backrest side anyway.
He should be thankful, really.
Besides, it’s not that bad. It’s comfortable and cosy and it feels kind of nice to be there with her breath hot on his arm. Kind of feels like belonging, in a way. Not that he’d belong there in her apartment with an arm around her. But, like, maybe he belongs in this town, after all. With these people. In this dysfunctional, little family they have formed.
He drifts off again, and the next time he opens his eyelids, she has her phone out. There’s a brief moment where the phone screen is too bright in the already darkening afternoon and he kind of just wants to put his hand all over the text conversation she seems to be so into, but then something much familiar settles.
Oh, the good old panic.
He falls on the floor in one swift motion, and when he sits up and steals a glance of her, he’s pretty sure she’s grinning. Like, honest-to-god you are a fcking idiot kind of a grin.
It might be because his shirt looks like it was buttoned by a drunkard or because his hair is sticking up in all cardinal and intercardinal and secondary-intercardinal directions. At least he looks the part—the part being a fcking idiot.
“I’m sorry??” he pipes up, worried, before rubbing a soothing hand over his aching back.
“Idiootti”, she snorts, not even looking away from her phone screen.
They're out and about, or as out and about as one can get in this town, and it's nice—Robert likes spending time with these people, nevermind they haven't got much in common. But there's people in common, events in common, and it's enough in common to keep him where he is, sitting around the table with the girls. The feeling in indescribable—it's warmth spreading across his ribs, it's ache in his cheeks from too much laughter, it's ease, it's home.
The idea that there was a time when this wasn't home, now seems absurd.
Cella hops up to grab them another round, Robert uses the break in the flow to excuse himself for a wee.
The bar is crowded—after all, it is the go-to place for the youth, and it is the weekend night—and all he does is peek in the bathroom before backing into the wall opposite the door. His back hits the wall with a quiet thud and a heavy sigh escapes his lungs: the bathroom is full, he doesn't feel like standing in there like a dickhead.
To pass the time, he pulls his phone out. The screen is far too bright in the dim hallway, and there aren't too many notifications, or his friends are all pretty much around that one table back at the bar, but there's one that piques his interest.
[01:39am] arthur: oi mate wyd? dya remember alessandra? x
He squints his eyes at the text, at the livid memory of Alessandra, of dating her.
[01:42am] robert: srs? you're having me on [01:42am] arthur: come again lad
There's not enough time for him to reply before a familiar guy steps out of the bathroom. Robert doesn't notice, fingers stuck hovering over the keyboard, screen lighting his frowned features. Maybe he's a bit drunk, too, cheeks flushed from the beer and letters blurring on the phone screen; the wall a trusty support behind his back.
The voice is familiar, so is the bright smile following it.
"Heya", Robert smiles back, easy and flustered. And there it is again: the warmth, the ache, the ease. He lets his gaze run the other lad from head to toes and back, tired eyes studying the bright ones. He smiles, again, all lazy and hazy and soft, and the back of his head hits the wall. The phone vibrates in his hand, yet he doesn't feel it. Don't judge him—he likes the guy. Despite making a show out of how he doesn't, he really does.
It's nice to have someone genuine around, you know, someone who genuinely enjoys your company. Someone who just listens as you ramble on, with that certain absent spark in their eyes. And look, Robert doesn't want to get all Disney, but someone who looks at you like Flynn Rider looks at that Tangled girl when she looks away.
It's pretty wicked.
"Hi", he says, again, softer now, eyes idly shifting from the sharp cut of the other's jaw to the soft plump of his lips. "Fancy seeing ya here", and God, he's so awfully English when he's drunk. But the guy doesn't seem to mind: he merely smiles, in that amused but fond way, hands twisting together and head ducking down.
"Fancy seeing you here", is the poor imitation he attempts as a reply, but Robert grins anyway, feels the warmth spread, tingling in his fingertips.
It's almost funny, how easy it is to touch his arm, to drag him back to their table by the wrist, to sit next to him.
It's easy, it's warm, it's nice.
He kind of really likes the guy, despite telling his best friend otherwise later that night.
It was real then, he realises now, the uneasy feeling he'd gotten lately. He sees it in the eyes of the other boy. He blinks, eyes wide like he's a deer in the headlights, neck uncomfortably crained to pull away.
The music's still blasting somewhere in the background, there's a streak of flour across Konsta's face, his fingers are still tight around Robert's arm, and their conversation feels terribly out of place.
"You can't keep doing this", he says, and Robert flinches.
"I, what? I mean, I have no idea what you're talking about", he lies, blatant, and his eyes search for answers in the others'.
Konsta takes a step back, and Robert finds himself missing the weight of his hand.
"This", he says. "Just, like, stop, okay? If you're not interested then stop fucking acting like it."
It's much like an open-palmed slap against his cheek: he doesn't expect it, doesn't see it coming, he just goes with the flow of it.
He swallows, and it seems to echo in the apartment kitchen.
And I'm right over here, why can't you see me, and I'm givin' it my all, some guy sings to a Tiesto beat.
Konsta scoffs, that I can't believe you kind of a way that seems amused but disappointed at the same time. He shakes his head, and the corner of his mouth quirks up, even if his smile lines don't show and the wrinkles around his eyes stay hidden.
"Right", he says, ducking his head down awkwardly.
But I'm not the guy you're taking home, the soulful guy--Calum, or something, Robert wants to say--keeps singing.
"You were going to kiss me", he says slowly. There's a whisk in his left hand and his hip is leaning against the kitchen counter at an awkward angle.
The pancake mix in the bowl bubbles.
"That's--I--Why", he stumbles with his words.
"Did you just really ask me why?" Konsta asks, and there's an incredulous burst of laughter following. It dies fast enough, leaving only a blank face behind.
Robert shifts on his feet and finds them much more interesting than the other boy. He feels his cheeks burning all of the sudden, the hot underneath his freckles threatening to surface. His pinky toe peeks out of his sock.
"Dude", he says at the floor.
"Don't dude me", Konsta says.
The songs quiets down to a silence, only noise in the apartment coming from the slowly sizzling butter on the pan.
A different beat starts to pick up. Someone in the old apartment building hallways slams their door shut. The fridge makes a low hum.
Robert's not one for rash decisions, or deviating from his daily routines.
It feels wrong to surge forward, to push his lips against the other's. He feels out of place, unsecure, like he's standing on an island of ice about flip any moment.
It feels different, though, when he feels like melting against the boy's warmth, hands catching the crook of his elbow and the slant of his waist.
It feels real, it feels right, in a way he's not familiar with.
the first realisation: it is terribly warm, scorching. there's skin against skin, rays of sunshine through the blinders, birds singing outside, and there's sweat and sweat and sweat. it's very idyllic, unlike at home, and as he fights his tired eyes open, the second realisation comes: it is not home.
the ceiling is white, unscathed, unlike at home. there's no blackout curtain, to obscure the difference between day and night, unlike at home. the sheets feel soft, laundered with care, unlike at home. and, worst of all, there's a body next to him—most definitely unlike at home. he is, most definitely, not at home.
the third realisation: it's her. he doesn't know what to make out of it. he utters a laugh, incredulous. she doesn't stir.
there are clothes scattered all over the apartment. shoes merely tossed away and coats dropped in a rush, a bottle of corona spilled on the floor. remember? it's all screaming, and he swallows—no, and his head hits the pillow again, fingers gripping at sheets, knuckles all white.
"shit", he murmurs and rubs his eyes with force, and his head is thumping.
he's never seen her like this, and he feels like he's not supposed to see her like this, not supposed to be there, here—he's intruding. she seems soft, like this: light hair spread all over the lighter sheets, last night's lipstick a faint smear on her lips, a leg throw over his, a pale thigh hugging a tan one. it's poetic, like in any better romantic film of sorts. he's supposed to tuck the strands of hair behind her ear, and she's supposed to smile in her dogsleep.
"hey", she suddenly whispers, and his heart skips a beat. he doesn't know what to say. he doesn't say anything. "are you not gonna say anything?"
"no, probably not."
and they simply lie there, with their morning breaths awful and thighs stuck together. he doesn't dare to move—is it less awkward to just lie there, skin against skin, rather than to make a move to unstick their skin from one another? he reckons yeah, yes it is.
"i can make breakfast", she says, and he looks at her. it's an odd perspective: over the freckles on his shoulder, her piercing eyes peek through the curtain of hair, all innocent, asking, begging.
Jätä Effi vaan sisälle, tuun ratsastaa sen nyt aamulla.
Sori, piti laittaa toi meidän aamutallintekijälle..
Today 8:12 am
Haluutko sä totuuden vai kansikuvaversion?
voidaan leikkiä arvausleikkiä sit
sä kerrot ja mä arvaan kumpi on kumpi 🤷
… Mistä lähtien sä oot halunnut leikkiä mitään?
just tryna joke
keventää tunnelmaa, vai mitä ne sanoo
Aa, hyvin kevennetty sillä “Ehkä” - jutulla eilen.. Sulla oli aika kiire häipyä kisapaikalta?
ei me nyt sinne asumaankaan voitu jäädä
talliporukalla oli illanistujaiset
Kiva. Oliko hauskaa?
niin hauskaa kun voi olla :)
shit pretendin to enjoy the night with the fam when u dunno if ur gonna see em ever again as is
nyt sä voit arvata
Harmi, jos teillä nyt porukat hajoaa sen tallin vuoksi. Varmaan hankala pitää sit yhteyttä enää, jos joku lähtee.
exactly why we wouldn’t work
Ai sä oot kuitenkin ajatellu asiaa?
Ja sä päätit ihan yksin, että koska joku on hankalaa, niin sitä ei kannata edes yrittää?
well there’s no point if the other one’s not in it fully, right
Tarkotatko sä tolla itseäsi vai mua?
miksi sä luulet että mä lähdin silloin finaaliyönä
Pois vai? Koska sä et kestänyt keskustella asioista aamulla selvinpäin?
pointless to talk when there's nothing to talk about
Kiva tietää miten vähän mä sulle lopulta merkkasin. Mistähän mun pitäs tietää mitä luurankoja sulla on kaapissa?
täh? miten sä nyt ton vedit tosta
me sovittiin ettei ole järkeä
why should we go where it would just f(u)ckin hurt
En mä tiedä enää. Tai tiedän, mutta sä et halua kuulla sitä, eikö?
why did you kiss me
idk do i? you tell me
Koska mä halusin. Koska mä pidin susta.
but you were in a f(u)ckin relationship
and you didn't think to tell me that
i had to hear from someone else and that's f(u)ckin ridiculous
Mä luulin, että oon tehny tän hyvin selväksi jo: mä en todellakaan ikinä ajatellut, että se ilta päättyisi niin. Mä en ole mikään helvetin pettäjä, se vaan tapahtui ja mä pelästyin, että se tapahtui ja niin.. No, kai mun olisi pitänyt katua sitä paljon enemmän, jos sillä ei olisi ollut mitään väliä. Ja mä kerroin sulle heti, kun me nähtiin seuraavan kerran. Millä sä ajattelit, että mä olisin sen ilmoittanut siinä välissä? Savumerkeillä?
mutta anyway, joo ehkä et oo enää varattu ja niin, mutta silti, eihän tässä oo mitään järkee
sä oot siellä ja mä oon täällä
what can you do
Kyllä mä sen tiedän.
mikset sä sitten anna olla?
Koska mä.. Vittu mistä mä tiedän? Koska mä tykkään susta edelleenkin, vaikka sä et haluakkaan kuulla sitä, niinhän se meni? Mä tiedän, että mun pitäisi osata antaa olla, mutta no, tässä mä avaudun maanantai aamuna krapulaiselle Robertille siitä, miten tyhmä mä olen.. Niin..
Today 8:59 am
what do you want me to say?
En mä tiedä. Ettei sua kiinnosta tippaakaan suudella mua takaisin?
one could say he’s on friendly terms with panic. it’s an awfully familiar feeling, one he often doesn’t shy away but lives with, but this one’s got new hues. it has little to do with him, and all to do with what he wakes up to.
what does he wake up to? a) a girl with tan skin b) long legs tangled with his c) rather unfamiliar sheets d) all of the above
panic rumbles in his chest with such force it sends his heart stumbling all over its cage of ribs. it’s a different kind of sensation, compared to the one with clammy hands and nervous tongue. suddenly, he finds himself out of breath despite having done nothing at all. his heart, however, has ran something akin to a marathon.
arm numb under her head, he fears to move.
there’s sun peeking in from the basement windows. they paint the ceiling all shades of golden, and he tries outlining them with his gaze, a mere distraction to sort his overheated brain out. something fuzzy pokes around the edges of it, white noise fading in and out, in and out, in and out.
she doesn’t seem to mind when he braves an inch, then another one, and another after that. the bed whines, an unfortunate squeak in the quiet morning, as he gets up. the apartment feels strange, all of the sudden—like he’s doesn’t know the place, but he’s been there before.
there are clothes scattered all over the apartment. shorts merely tossed away and shirts dropped in a rush, a bottle of wine spilled on the table.
he blinks, cheeks flushing pink as he hurries to his clothes: shorts, shirt, cap… hadn’t he worn underwear? in another rush of panic, he pulls up his shorts nevertheless, his hands trying to find the sleeves of his shirt.
that’s when the bed creaks, followed by, “morning.” her smile is as soft as her greeting, and he averts his eyes as she untangles her bare body from the sheets. the more he focuses on buttoning his shirt, the more the small buttons slip away from his fingers.
“do you want coffee? aspirin? both?”
there’s a smirk playing on her lips as she moves closer, and he’s envious of the ease in her bones. she touches him on her way to the kitchen, just a soft hint of touch on his arm, but it makes him shudder, almost spook—”tea’s fine”, he blurts, more as a safe mechanism, a distraction, than to reply to her question, and he regrets it the moment the words rush out: “i mean, no, i’m okay, i should be well on my way, honestly, i’ve overstayed my welcome, uh, so, yeah.”
but she’s already shuffling in the kitchen, and he’s standing there with a god damn basecall cap in his hands, searching for her eyes.
he can’t swallow it down. “sorry.”
sarah reyes laughs.
“sorry? for sleeping, or the sxx?” she merely humours him, and her features soften when she looks at him, “which flavour tea you’d prefer? i think i have a few options.”
he shakes his head, soft. “no, honestly, i gotta go.”
despite the words, he finds his legs unable to carry him to the door, or anywhere near it. they stay put, and he doesn’t move. he’s fiddling with the buttons of his shirts, fingers finally getting the hang of it and working them one by one, only leaving the two top ones alone. the rest of them, they’re buttoned awry.
there’s an awkward beat of silence, filled only with her working around in the kitchen. he thinks of f()cking her, the way he had her pinned against the sheets, a hand in her hair, mouth on neck, collarbone, anything. he thinks of f()cking her, and he struggles for a moment.
sarah smiles, all null, and he thinks there’s a song called that, sarah smiles.
“well, neither of us can change what happened”, she starts, and suddenly, she’s so very close. his eyes wander, desperate to study her features. “but i do agree, it was a stupid thing to do.”
he can’t help but let his gaze fall down, on to her lips, as she bits down, chewing on the pink flesh as her amber eyes search his. there’s an idle wonder floating around his mind: what is she looking for?
“still”, and her bottom lips goes free, “i’m sorry to tell you i regret nothing.”
she’s terribly relaxed and he’s not even close—a smile plays tricks on her lips as she leans against the kitchen counter, seemingly at ease as she brushes a hand through her short hair. “you need a ride? i need to go get breakfast, i can take you on my way.”
“no!” he hurries, eyes shifting from her to the door and back again. he opens his mouth, ready to ask about his f()cking underwear, but hesitates. “no, it’s fine. i’ll go.”
and this time, he does go. all the way to the door, a firm grip on the handle an all, until.
“uh”, he turns to look at her, “you don’t happen to know where he lives, aleksanteri?”
sarah shakes her head softly, and she seems somewhat fond, an it twists his insides like a corkscrew. her smiles is there, though more or less null again. “but if you remember what’s in the neighbourhood, i think i can find it. if you still want my help?”
“f()ck”, he murmurs, mostly to himself as he pats down his pockets. his phone’s there, but as he pulls it out, it’s dead. he shoves it back into his shorts, admits his defeat with a small, “i guess.” the cap comes off as the boy runs his hands through his hair. he shouldn’t, really, really, really shouldn’t. then again, had that stopped him, anyway?
f()ck, he hates himself and his stupid god damn f()cking c()ck.
slowly suffocating in self-hatred, he watches as sarah collects her things, with all the time in the world, and finally, as she’s slipping her sneakers on, she looks at him like there’s something funny.
“you think you need those too?”
and her finger points to the boxers, neatly folded over the back of a chair, as if to dry. his eyes wander, from her dropped gaze to the boxers and to her, again, and heat strikes his skin at once.
“yes”, he admits through gritted teeth and takes a few determined strides to stuff the briefs in his pocket, not too comfortable going commando but unwilling to change there with her present. she’s probably seen enough of him, already.
“look”, he starts. his hands rub together, clammy all of the sudden, and he’s tired. “can we go? i shouldn’t—i should have never come, just… do you have, dunno, a group convo, or something? maybe find out where he lives? i can walk, honest, there’s no problem.”
sarah considers. she’s leaning against the doorway, a solid wave of calm.
“no”, she then says, “or, i mean yes, we have, but he’s not in it. i’ll take you, it’s no bid deal. we’re still friends, robert. or at least that’s what i hope, or was the sxx so bad you never want to see me again?”
“don’t say that”, he murmurs, painful, eyes directed anywhere but at her.
“do you want your beer from upstairs?”
“sure”, he sighs. he feels eleven shades of defeated, oddly not too embarrassed, and he finds the point in her words. “i didn’t mean that, y’know.”
stuffing his hands in the pockets of his salmon shorts, shifting from his heels to his toes and back again, he carefully finds sarah again. and what can he say? he’s unsure, lost, and it’s all on display right there, on his face. biting the corner of his lips, he replaces the cap on his head and searches her eyes for something. help, closure, solace? who knows. he sure doesn’t.
here’s what he knows:
1. slugs have four noses. 2. a human heart, on average, beats over a hundred thousand times a day. 3. he’s f()cked sarah reyes.
“why are we doing this?”
sarah shifts. there’s an odd change in her presence, almost as if she’s suddenly uncertain, uncomfortable. she seems to want to give him an answer, ponders it as she swallows, hard, before returning his gaze.
“i don’t know. i can’t give you any answers even though i know you deserve them”, she says. “can’t it just be what it is? do we really need to know why?”
he doesn’t answer, merely winces. he remembers this conversation, the one he had at the stables, hidden behind the hay in the attic. it’s terrible to be on this side, he realises, and the inhale he takes is sharper than he’d like.
sarah grows bored of waiting and starts towards upstairs. her voice is blank when she speaks again, “i think your shoes are up there as well.”
“someone’s gonna get hurt.”
it seems like his voice echoes in the staircase, in the heavy air between the two. he looks up at her, from the foot of the stairs, and he’s truly sorry now, wincing through it.
there’s a terrible, terrible feeling in his gut—someone going to get hurt, and oddly enough, he’s not thinking of the two standing in the staircase. his mind drifts, so far away sarah’s sudden proximity makes him flinch.
“someone always gets hurt, robert, that’s life”, she says, her tone heavy. “i’m not asking for your love here.”
he swallows at the word. love, right. because this, they had always been about f()cking, right? just some primal instinct to put your d()ck somewhere, anywhere, whether it’s his best friend of god knows how many years or a girl he barely knows.
“alright”, he accepts, nods even. “good. ‘s kinda hard to come by.”
“i know. let’s just get your beer, worry about the world later, yeah?”
this isn’t about the world, he wants to say, this is about us. but all that comes out, is, “sure.”
it’s quiet as he walks up the stairs, a terrible hangover pounding his head like that one dude pounds the punching bag in the gym: unforgiving, relentless, some odd shade of desperate, even. he’s not sure if it’s that, or merely closing in on her, that’s making the walk worse, more difficult than he’d like.
pushing past her, he finds himself scraping along the walls, her proximity suddenly undesired. nevertheless, that’s where he stops: his back against the wall, both literally and figuratively.
“i don’t know about friends.”
his voice is soft. it’s the kind of tone one would find in an apology. a tone to mellow disappointment, soften the blow, ease it.
“you don’t know what about friends?”
“come on”, he urges, pained. the confusion is an easy find, painted on her features like a jackson pollock—all over and everywhere. “you know i can’t be your f()ckin’ friend.”
his hand finds the back of his neck, rubbing at it to mend the awkwardness, the baseball cap rising and falling on his forehead, following his movements to a tee. and it’s not funny, per se, even less funny when considering the very situation, but he chuckles anyway: “or, that exactly, yeah, sure.”
sarah doesn’t follow, harsh lines not bending into amusement.
“are you suggesting we’re just friends with benefits, without the friend bit?” and he thinks she blushes, “just benefits?”
“c’mon”, he begs not to have to say it out loud. the pink idles on her cheeks, and he wonders if it’s anger rather than embarrassment. he doesn’t want to know, instead, he chuckles, dry and incredulous, obviously lacking humour: “what, you want to, i dunno, facetime me? go out for lunch? go ride? to the movies? out and about? come on.”
“well”, and her lips curve into a smile, “a ride sounds good.”
he doesn’t smile.
“fine”, she hums, but her smirk doesn’t subside, “but you can’t be this sorry afterwards, every time. it’s really hard work making you feel less awkward about everything, you know?”
“you don’t have to. i don’t wanna be your fu—i don’t wanna be hard work. and it shouldn’t”, he shifts where he’s standing, suddenly uncomfortable with the idea of being hard work to someone, especially someone he’s f()cked. he winces at the thought, crossing his arms, eyes falling down at his feet. “i don’t want to f()ck around, honest.”
“so which one is it?” she asks, and he’s sure she doesn’t mean it to be so sharp, but there’s pain in her eyes, and he thinks he gets it. it doesn’t soften her blows, however. “you don't want to see me ever again or you do? sxx or no sxx? you're kind of sending me mixed messages. that much i understood that you don't want to be friends with me.”
she takes a step forward, he takes one backwards. it’s much like a dance, and when she does close the distance, he doesn’t dare to back away from her, to provoke her. he doesn’t know her, after all, does he?
“and do be honest, robert. like i’m being with you when i say i wouldn’t mind having last night happening again. drunk or sober.”
she touches his arm, and he shudders.
“i think you’re better off with someone like him. you don’t want”, he starts, vaguely gesturing to himself as a whole, “well, this. not really.”
there’s a pregnant pause. her eyes, expectant, on his. her fingers caressing his arm. she, in his space, and he suddenly feels like suffocating. the silence is broken by a whisper: “i don’t think i can be friends with you.”
at that, sarah nods, slowly. her hands fall to her sides, her gaze avoids his. it’s, as if, the tables have turned all of the sudden, and now it’s her who’s trembling.
“i’m too broken to be with someone like him.”
she leaves her with that, and it sits heavy in his chest.
“get your beer, will you? we should get going”, she calls, from the kitchen on the main floor.
“leave it”, he murmurs and heads to his shoes. they look rather lonely now, compared to the sea of shoes at the entrance last night. his sneakers feel too loose on his feet, and maybe it’s not just a feeling: he looks at sarah and the heavy weight of loss grabs him by the collar, shakes him around, makes his heart rattle in his chest.
they walk to the car in silence.
her smile doesn't seem genuine when she looks at him. there’s weight on her words, like she’s tired. “any details? are there any shops, street names, anything you’d remember?”
there's a song playing in the radio, fast and irregular and upbeat. he doesn't know what song it is, can't separate it from the one before that and the one before that. it's all the same, adding to his fading focus.
kalla is quiet today. houses, streets, blocks pass in his window. he pulls his hands up to his face, presses fingertips into eyelids, drags them down to his cheeks, his jaw, his neck. there’s a steady white hum in his head. it’s all too familiar, and he feels suddenly tired—this again?
“i think it’s here”, he says.
he doesn’t recognise the place.
“okay”, sarah says looking around, “should i pull over there?”
she parks the car, sets it carefully in the park mode, but he barely notices, hurrying to get rid of his seatbelt and out of the car like it’s harder to breathe in there. the car door is about to be slammed shut—
his hand stills its movement.
“just… let me know, okay?”
there’s something bittersweet stuck in his throat, hard to swallow around, and he rasps, “okay.”
Salma: Aava, etupihalla on hoitopuomi jossa hevosia voi hoitaa hyvällä säällä. Kentän puolella on katos, jossa on myös pari paikkaa hoitopuomeille. Tallissa pesarissa voi myös hoitaa hevosia, kun siellä on vapaata
Dec 16, 2019 20:41:39 GMT 2
Lyyti: Hei ylläpitäjät, voisko tuon toisen Lyytin käyttäjän poistaa? (Se jolla tein hoitajahakemuksen) Unohdin mun tunnukset kokonaan enkä millään saanut niitä selville! Pahoittelut vaivasta!!
Dec 22, 2019 19:52:23 GMT 2
Anne: Lyyti, poistan sen =)
Jan 19, 2020 19:10:44 GMT 2
Aava Punavuori: Voihan tutustumisleirin tuotosmaksun yhä laittaa topiciin, vaaaaikka ne olis pitäny laittaa noin kuukausi sitten...? mulla on ollut vähän koulukiireitä ja yritän korvata nyt mun epäaktiivisuutta😅
Mar 26, 2020 13:34:28 GMT 2
Salma: Aava, voi laittaa!
Mar 27, 2020 16:42:14 GMT 2
izabella: Terve kaikki! Olen uusi täällä,
Aug 24, 2020 15:13:13 GMT 2
izabella: Hei kaikki olen uusi täällä! Minulla on aika monta omaa hevosia ja olisi ihanaa jos joku voisi kertoa pikkasen miten täällä toimitaan
Aug 24, 2020 15:14:24 GMT 2
Salma: Moi izabella! Laitan sulle lähipäivinä tulemaan yksityisviestillä infoa Seppeleestä (yksityisviestit löytyy tuolta yläpalkin ruskeasta laatikosta)!
Aug 25, 2020 10:37:50 GMT 2
izabella: Kiitos Salma!
Aug 25, 2020 16:17:58 GMT 2
Rai: Hui kun oon ollut taas kauan pois... Tulin vaan ilmoittamaan että oon täällä vielä, ja yritän pian laittaa jotain hoitomerkintää Karin päikkyyn
Nov 22, 2020 10:55:08 GMT 2
marja: Oon uusi täällä joten voisiko joku kertoa miten täällä toimitaan ja miten saa tehtyä oman kaapin
Mar 16, 2021 20:58:18 GMT 2
Ruut: Hei! Kysäisenpä tässä, kun tavoittaa varmaan useamman asiaan vaikuttavan: päivitelläänkö Roin kuulumisia kesähevospäikkyyn vai tehdäänkö Roille oma uusi? (Ja jos on jo oma olemassa oleva, joka ei nyt sattunut vaan omaan silmään, saa vinkata! )
Mar 21, 2021 10:06:43 GMT 2
Salma: Ruut, tein Roille oman päiväkirjan
Mar 22, 2021 11:12:08 GMT 2
Ruut: Tulin ilmoittelemaan itsestäni; pari viikkoa taitaa umpeutua tänään, mutta Roin ja Ruutin ensimmäiset kuulumiset on vielä vasta puolimatkassa. Tulossa kuitenkin!
Apr 3, 2021 12:01:13 GMT 2