Lounge of Tomorrow - It's been months since I've worked on my own writing.

This is just a rought draft. It basically has the beginning, middle and end. Ultimately, I'd like it to be a bit longer....

“Buster, will you turn out the lights? I don’t really want you seeing me like this.” She was already reaching for another cigarette.

Her eyes sagged like an old ceiling with a crack in it. For the first time in his life, he wanted to hit a woman.

“I’ve seen you worse, Shelia. The lights stay on. I like to see you when we talk. All the lies that spill out of your filthy mouth are rendered powerless by your face. It lacks bluffing power.”

“Buster, please.” She just wanted to smoke her cigarette in quiet and fall asleep in the dark, maybe never wake up. The way he was looking at her, she could tell he wasn’t going to let this one go.

“I’m actually sitting here thinking I could hit you. How’s that for true love? I so badly want to slam my fist into your face I’m actually holding my own hands, trying to keep them still, to maintain my cool. How is it I can hate you now, after so many years of wanting this thing between us to go on forever?” There was a hitch in his throat and he hated that he was suddenly feeling sorry for them both. He never really understood the distinction between love and pity, and he could already feel the anger slipping. She was so young and he’d been lucky to have her. Everyone said so.

She could see the anger leaving his body as quickly as it had come. His back was starting to bend. He was unclasping his hands. His eyes were now fixated upon her knee, a definite sign of arousal. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and thought the cigarette made her look old and vulgar. She put it out. “It won’t happen again. I promise.”

“Liar, liar.” His hand reached out to cup the back of her left leg, his thumb lightly caressing a deep bruise below her knee cap. He pressed down hard. Her eyes squinted in pain but remained dry. She asked him to kiss her.

“Never again.” His hand moved to the lower part of her thigh. She was wearing her favorite skirt.

“Don’t say that.” His hand was moving steadily upwards, but his body was leaning back, trying to escape.

He could feel the cotton lining and the rough curls beneath. “Never again.”

She was beginning to cry. This was unkindness dressed up as love. He really wasn’t going to kiss her again and she knew it.

“Buster.”

He removed his hand and was out the door. His footsteps were a hailstorm on the wooden staircase. She moved to the window and watched him start the car. When he rounded the corner, she put out the light. She lay on the bed but could not fall asleep. The bruise on her leg was still throbbing and she thought, Please God, never let it stop.