Crash And Burn

You huff softly as you slid into the leather passenger seat, glancing over with a hint of frustration. “I just don’t get why you can’t rearrange” you say, finally settling down and crossing your arms, your tone tinged with impatience.

“It’s a work trip. I’m sorry I won’t be able to attend your dinner, but I can’t reschedule” he huffed, gripping the steering wheel tightly. His knuckles went white as he exerted pressure, the tension mounting as he started to drive.

“I make it to all your work events, so could you not leave a day later?” you argued, shifting your position slightly in the seat to emphasize your point. The anger was evident in your tone as you continued, “You never make it to mine.”

He opened his mouth to speak but then hesitated, stopping himself mid-gesture. Instead, he exhaled sharply, muttering, “I’m not having this conversation when I can’t do anything. Since I’m always in the wrong.” His voice rose slightly as he turned a corner, voice tinged with frustration. His head nodded sharply and exaggeratedly, a clear sign of his annoyance and exasperation.

You, now even more pissed off, turn to look out the window as the car moves slowly through traffic. You find yourself praying that this normal 10-minute drive will fly by quickly, but instead, it feels like it drags on endlessly for 10 hours.

Once you arrive home, you stomp out of his car and quickly head to your room, changing into a comfortable pair of joggers and a loose T-shirt. You then step outside onto your back porch, which is connected to the kitchen by sliding glass doors that let in the evening breeze. Inside, Schlatt remains in his dinner wear, a crisp shirt and dress pants, leaning against the kitchen counter and fiddling with his phone, a slight frown on his face. You go outside and light a cigarette from your pack, taking a long, slow drag as you gaze out onto the quiet night, the smoke curling upward as you leaned on your right side. It’s a bad stress habit you picked up when you were younger.

You were enjoying the peaceful quiet of the night when suddenly, you heard the faint sound of low, soothing music beginning to play. Schlatt, regardless of the circumstances, played music every single night to fill the silence in his own habitual way. Usually, a gentle melody from acoustic guitars softly filled the air, effortlessly replacing the quietness and creating a calming atmosphere.

Then you heard him intentionally skip the current song, quickly select a different one from the playlist, and turn up the volume to amplify its sound.

You furrow your brow slightly as you listen to the faint melodies in the background, catching the rhythm just before the heavy, deliberate footsteps arrive with a loud thud against the sliding doors. "He would usually let the songs play through," you thought, as his presence drew nearer. The slight noise of the sliding doors indicated he was leaning against them.

“I need you, like the flowers need the rain” the gentle voice of the America playing through your, pretty expensive but good, speakers.

You turn to look at Schlatt, who was leaning casually against the sliding glass doors, his arms crossed and a slight smirk on his face, as the soft, melodic tune played quietly in the background. The music's gentle rhythm and warm tones brought a light smile to your lips, making you laugh softly at the scene.

He signaled for you to come closer, a subtle nod accompanied by a slight raise of his hand. You accidentally dropped your cigarette onto the floor as you hesitated momentarily, then approached him cautiously. The booming music intensified as you approached the sliding glass doors, their metal frame gleaming under the dim ambient light.

“Is this your apology?” you asked, standing confidently in front of him as you looked up, your eyes narrowing slightly to emphasize the weight of your question.

“It’s a, I’m a dick and I’m not changing my plans, but I still need you,” he said with a lazy smile, his gaze softly lingering on you. His Hands gently moved to your waist, pulling you closer until your bodies pressed together. “I do love this song,” you murmured, hugging his neck, feeling the warmth of his embrace.

“I know. Does your stubborn, inconsiderate boyfriend even get a kiss?” He softly tapped your waist, his head tilting slightly, as if considering his next words or observing your reaction.

"Yeah, he does," you whispered softly as you pulled him closer. You leaned in, your lips brushing against his in a tender kiss, your hands finding their way to the back of his neck, gently guiding him as you kissed.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled softly against your lips, his hands gently squeezing your waist as he looked into your eyes with a pleading expression. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise,” he whispered, his voice full of remorse and sincerity.