He'd imagined it so many times; yes, he'd pondered what her thighs would feel like tight against his. He pondered endlessly, awake at night, vodka scorching a trail through his veins, what it would be like to come in her and have he accept him as nothing but a man.
Before him, she stood, hair swaying delightfully against the dip in her collarbone, a haven that he wished to taste with his tongue. In his dreams, she wore white. A white lab coat that had red blood stains on it, his blood, and no matter how many times she washed it, it never seemed to come out.
He'd go home in the evening with a heavy heart, with a soul that was slightly more worse for the wear, but he didn't care. He had those gorgeous snapshots of her flittering about his brain and that was all he needed.
It wasn't what he wanted.
He spent his days trying not to think of her and failing miserably and getting pissed at himself because he was so fickle. He'd often compaer the hue of her skin to his and find that they didn't match. He'd look into her eyes and see a fire waiting to rage where in his own eyes there were embers slowly fizzling out.
Every night he would go home and not think of her, not think of anything really. He'd eat and he'd sleep and he'd live and not think of her, not until he saw her once more in the morning.
The night, one in particular, brought something new; something unfamiliar.
Wine was certainly not his drink of choice; it wasn't acrid enough, it didn't sear his throat when he drank it. And if she hadn't shown up on his doorstep, tipsy and dissheveled and gorgeous, clutching the burgundy, he never would have drank it.
It was impossible, the way her lips curved around the rim of the plastic cup; she was gorgeous and she didn't care that she was drinking expensive wine from flimsy plastic. And she didn't mind that his living room was cluttered. And she didn't mind when he placed his hand on his hand to keep from placing it on her thigh.
They sat and they talked and he vaguely remembered calling her pretentious... but she hadn't cared. She kept on drinking, and smiling and pretending that it didn't matter that he was so fucking sad.
If he'd asked her why she was there she wouldn't have said it was because she loved him, or that she wanted to be; she would have said she was there because it felt right. It felt right to be sitting there with him drinking ridiculously priced alcohol out of plastic cups and telling each other why the other pissed them off.
She called him a bastard and grabbed the rest of the bottle and chugged it. He wanted to tell her to stop, but he was awarded with such a lovely vision of her throat that he didn't dare utter a word. His fingers wrapped gingerly around his own cup but he didn't drink. In fact, he toyed with the idea of offering it to her, just to see her tip her head back and drink again.
She'd kissed him first, hadn't she? Yes, she'd kissed him. It had been deep and languid, something out of a dirty dream in which the woman is wearing a garish negligee and moans far too much. But it was perfect, in its own way and had made his arms snake up and around her, forgetting the empty bottle of wine, forgetting that they were both drunk.
Her expensive blouse fell beside his enormously plain one, a contrast that he found amusing for all of two seconds before she began sucking on his earlobe. It wasn't in his nature to wonder why he did anything to deserve her, so when the urge struck he simply kicked it aside and kissed the portion of her neck where it met her shoulder.
They never made it to the bed; instead they chose to stay on the couch.
And every time she moaned that night, she moaned for him. Her eyes spoke volumes for him alone and he forgot how much he loathed everything for that one moment when she came.
When he awoke, she was gone and he smiled, knowing beyond a doubt that she had whispered that she loved him before she had gathered up her things and left.