When she see’s him she nearly faints-- she very nearly-- finds herself in a heap on his living room floor, screaming for a mental asylum. Because she must be seeing things-- he must be nothing more than a figment of her exhausted imagination. She’d been in the same club when it had gone up in flames, had begged and ran into men twice her size just so they would let her back in, just so she could find him.
She wants him back the second she realizes he’s gone, wants him back the second she feels his loss--
but he’s still there sitting in his living room, smoking a cigarette and smirking up at her-- and she is standing in the doorway with mascara running down her cheeks, and a short glittery black dress on her slender frame. She is smudged with soot and body glitter.
“you’re alive.”
She is giggling-- the sort of laughter that sounds disjointed, driven by the kind of happiness that is hard to describe. It’s an answered prayer-- if she believed in them. She jumps onto his lap and straddles him- -she doesn’t think about it, just just needs to feel him, needs to touch him-- needs him, right now. Immediately.
“you’re alive-- fucking-- you’re--”
She kisses him deep-- desperate to taste him, desperate to feel him. She smells like soot and chanel number five, and tastes like a strawberry daquiri and life. He is there-- heartbeat and all-- and she has never needed to feel his breath hitch more. He is still breathing. She kisses him slow. She kisses him.
“You’re alive-- fuck me-- really-- babe-- “
She wants his shirt off, wants everything off.
She has just seen him burn-- she has just watched flames take him.
It is her turn now.
“Fuck me.”
