This is part two of the Sunday Stories series. If you haven't read part one you should do that first. You can access that page here:
Here's part two. Enjoy.
Elizabeth (Part 2)
His brain pulsated to the rhythm of the flashing red lights. The clock had read 12:00 for days, but he figured right now it wasn’t too far off. Hoisting himself up with his elbows, he flung the comforter away and rolled up onto his feet. Hand pressed flat against the wall, he staggered across the room and half-sat, half-fell into the armchair next to his desk. A piece of paper stuck to the glass as his groping fingers lifted the drink to his mouth. June 18th, he read over the rim of the cup. That was two weeks ago. He tossed the form to the side of the desk and downed the remaining two shots of watered down and warm Evan Williams.
Snaking his fingers around the armrests, he lifted himself up and walked to the middle of the room where his clothes lay in a pile on the ground. Slipping his feet into the legs of his jeans, he wriggled a couple of times to bring them to his waist before fastening his belt.
“Get up, woman,” he fumbled over his words as he pulled the comforter off the bed and threw it to the corner. Girl, he thought as he saw her lying naked on his mattress. Not woman. Girl.
“Let me sleep, David. It’s early,” the last word lingered on her lips as she tried to make it sound endearing enough to change his mind.
“It’s damn near one in the afternoon already,” he replied as he glanced at the flashing red lights. “Don’t you got somewhere to be?” When his estimate of the time didn’t stir her, he grabbed her clothes that were scattered across the floor and flung them at her on the bed. “Get up already, I got shit to do today.”
“We both know you don’t have anything to do. Lie down and go back to sleep.”
“Get out of my bed,” the words emerged from his mouth with a steady beat, as if his heart had throbbed them forward from the depths of his throat.
“You don’t have shit to do,” she sat up in bed and brushed her dark hair from her eyes, his words finally penetrating her half-slumber. “All you’re going to do is drink. You’re going to drink right now because you just woke up. You’re going to drink later at the club, and you’re going to drink yourself to sleep tonight. That’s all--”
“Don’t you dare talk to me like that. You’re in my house. You’d better remember that.”
“You brought me here, or do you even remember that?”
“Every minute of it. Now get out of my house.”
“You’re such an asshole. No wonder we see you every night,” she arched her back as she buttoned her jeans and shook her hair straight, combing it with her fingers.
“Least I just show up. Better than getting paid to shake my tits in front of some strangers a few hours every day. You don’t get out of my house now I’m calling the cops.”
“And telling them what? That you got a hooker in the house who won’t leave? You’d go to jail, too, genius.”
He was suddenly composed, and his placidity scared her. “Get out of my house.” Resolute and unblinking, his hazel eyes rendered her motionless. “I said get out of my house!” His body broke the stagnancy in a violent rush. Before she could move he was standing over her, his fist white with strain.
Looking down, his eyes glazed over. Her hair was no longer black but sandy blonde. Stark against her light hair however, her left eye sank into darkness, a reflection at the end of a kaleidoscope. The dark ring around her eye had a gravity of its own. It pulled him across an infinite space that existed between them like a black hole that would inevitably swallow him. His knees buckled and thudded as they met the hardwood floor. He doubled over, forehead pressing heavily into the back of his still clenched fist. His eyes began to swell up; the feeling was almost unbearable. When he finally raised his head again, she was gone.