Original Fic - Australia Wins
Aug. 19th, 2002 09:03 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
melwilOkay, an original fiction for you. Some angst, a green dress and some cricket. Written about two years ago. Rewritten last night to fix major tense problems.
Australia Wins
The sun is going to be a killer today. I can already feel it, pouring through the sheer, white curtains, dancing across the bed. I’m sweating, although I’m laying still, sweating a puddle into the worn cotton sheets. There’s a fan in the corner, a chugging ineffective thing, sending feeble gusts of air across the room.
The bed is too narrow for both of us, and you take up most of it. But you’ve allowed me two of the pillows and most of the sheet and, if I argued, you’d tell me that was enough. The mattress is flat, no bumps and no give, and you will complain that your back hurts when you wake up. You used to complain only when it was cold, but you’ve managed to transplant your complaints to the warmer weather.
You’re still asleep, lying on you back, one arm slung across me. You snore lightly, a backbeat that mixes with the whirl of the fan. You must have kicked the sheet around last night, because you’re only covered by a corner of it. I’m laying close to you, on my stomach, with my head turned towards you so I can watch you sleep.
You look peaceful when you are sleeping. You have the face of a child, and I imagine that you are innocent and untroubled. I wonder what you are thinking about, what thoughts make your lips curl at the edge like they are. Your hair sticks up, completely out of place, and you would be shocked to know that I like it like that. You’re so picky about your hair.
When the heat becomes unbearable you wake up. You look surprised to see me watching you, and you roll away from me to turn the radio on. A familiar song blares from the speakers, and I creep towards you, miming along to the words. You grab my hand, when I place it on your shoulder, kissing it and putting it on you stomach. I know that I am supposed to stroke you now, that’s what you’re expecting from me, but it’s really too hot for sex and I pull away and sit up.
“Not now.” I say.
“Whatever.” You lean off the edge of the bed, and I watch your bum move as you dig for a shirt on the floor. Every other part of you is tanned from hours in the sun, but your bum is still a considered white. You sits up, pulling a tattered black shirt over your head. You know how much I hate that shirt, but you wear it anyway. The back of the shirt is already damp.
You stand, grabbing a pair of jeans from the floor and look out the window as you pull them on. “The grass is getting too long.” You say.
“I know.” I have been watching it grow all week.
“Someone should cut it.”
“You could.”
“I want to watch the cricket.”
You wander out of the room and I stretch out in the bed. I like to pretend that I have all this space to myself. You call my name from the kitchen and I ignore you. You call again, and I finally stand up. I take a faded sundress from the top of the dresser, slipping it over my head and ignoring the stains that cross the skirt. I stand in front of the fan, absorbing the last of its pitiful air.
You call my name again, and I can tell that you’re getting cross with me. I turn the fan off and leave the bedroom. You’re in the kitchen, bumping things around.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
You wave the empty coffee tin at me and I point at the cupboard next to the fridge. My stomach won’t take coffee in this heat, so I pour myself a glass of orange juice.
“You shouldn’t drink from that cup.” You tell me.
“Why not?”
“There’s a chip on the rim.” You slam a coffee cup on the table, spooning International Roast and raw sugar into it. I watch you from next to the sink.
You pour water into you cup and sit at the table. I pour myself some more juice and sit next to you. We finish our drinks silently, and I try to remember a time when we couldn’t stop talking to each other. You scrape your chair across the floor and I wince as another mark appear on the lino. I sit still as you stomp into the living room, listening as the television is switched on and Ritchie Benauds and Mark Taylor flood the house.
I don’t feel like mowing the lawn so I wander back into the bedroom. A sleepy sounding DJ is on the radio, announcing another Beach Boys song. They never play the Beach Boys in winter, when the gentle reminders of the sun would be welcomed. I pull the sheet across the bed, half heartedly tucking the corners in, rearranging the pillows. I pick up the underwear from my side of the bed, but I leave your side of the bed alone.
The air in the bedroom is suffocating and I wish you’d let me open the window. But you always complain about the mosquitoes when I do. I wander out into the living room, where you’ve hung an old blanket across the window to darken the room. You’re spread out on the couch, watching the shining television.
“We could have used that blanket for something else.” I say.
You laugh as another player, from Sri Lanka or South Africa or India, is dismissed. You don’t notice when I leave the room.
The dishes are still stacked next to the sink, even though you promised that you would wash them. I put too much detergent in, and the bubbles are huge. I have to fight the impulse to flick them around the room. I tip a glass of luke warm water over the flowers in the window box. You laughed when I picked them out, told me that they wouldn’t last a week. You cheer in the living room, and I fight the impulse to care.
There’s a Kylie Minogue song playing on the radio. I sit on the bed and try to sing along, but you yell at me to shut up, and I don’t know the words anyway. I lay back onto the pillows and try to fall asleep, but the heat is heavy and I find it difficult to breathe. I stand in front of my closet, searching for the dress I hid down the back. I hid it down the back so you wouldn’t ask awkward questions about money.
The green dress, all shimmer and satin, has never been worn. I saved it for a special occasion, but we don’t have occasions anymore. The material is cool under my fingertips, and I decide to try it on, just for a second, just to make sure it still fits.
It fits perfectly. Thin straps. Very low front. Almost no back. The hem falls in waves around the middle of my calves. The material flows, curved over my hips and breasts, flat over my stomach.
I leave the dress on and tiptoe out of the room towards you. You’re shouting advice and abuse at the screen. I come up behind the couch and lean down towards you, but you just wave me away. I slink around the couch, kneeling in front of you, wiggling my hips a little. I feel the sting as your hand hits the side of my face.
I am falling towards the ground and I have to twist to avoid hitting my head. You leap off the couch and yank me to my feet. Your face is red and your voice hurts my ears.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” You shake me. "I'm watching the cricket, you’re not supposed to disturb me.” Shakes me again. “Take that dress off, you look like a fucking slut. Everyone thinks you’re a slut. You’re probably fucking someone else.”
You push me across the room and I stumble, the small coffee table slamming sharply into my back. You sit on the couch again, scratching your balls and turning the volume up.
I go back to the bedroom and put the sundress back on. I look at my face in the mirror and pull clinging pieces of hair away from the prominent red mark.
I go outside to mow the lawn. You cheer at the television. Australia wins.
I'm on a real original fiction kick at the moment, so stay tuned. Also have some good HP and West Wing ideas.
Australia Wins
The sun is going to be a killer today. I can already feel it, pouring through the sheer, white curtains, dancing across the bed. I’m sweating, although I’m laying still, sweating a puddle into the worn cotton sheets. There’s a fan in the corner, a chugging ineffective thing, sending feeble gusts of air across the room.
The bed is too narrow for both of us, and you take up most of it. But you’ve allowed me two of the pillows and most of the sheet and, if I argued, you’d tell me that was enough. The mattress is flat, no bumps and no give, and you will complain that your back hurts when you wake up. You used to complain only when it was cold, but you’ve managed to transplant your complaints to the warmer weather.
You’re still asleep, lying on you back, one arm slung across me. You snore lightly, a backbeat that mixes with the whirl of the fan. You must have kicked the sheet around last night, because you’re only covered by a corner of it. I’m laying close to you, on my stomach, with my head turned towards you so I can watch you sleep.
You look peaceful when you are sleeping. You have the face of a child, and I imagine that you are innocent and untroubled. I wonder what you are thinking about, what thoughts make your lips curl at the edge like they are. Your hair sticks up, completely out of place, and you would be shocked to know that I like it like that. You’re so picky about your hair.
When the heat becomes unbearable you wake up. You look surprised to see me watching you, and you roll away from me to turn the radio on. A familiar song blares from the speakers, and I creep towards you, miming along to the words. You grab my hand, when I place it on your shoulder, kissing it and putting it on you stomach. I know that I am supposed to stroke you now, that’s what you’re expecting from me, but it’s really too hot for sex and I pull away and sit up.
“Not now.” I say.
“Whatever.” You lean off the edge of the bed, and I watch your bum move as you dig for a shirt on the floor. Every other part of you is tanned from hours in the sun, but your bum is still a considered white. You sits up, pulling a tattered black shirt over your head. You know how much I hate that shirt, but you wear it anyway. The back of the shirt is already damp.
You stand, grabbing a pair of jeans from the floor and look out the window as you pull them on. “The grass is getting too long.” You say.
“I know.” I have been watching it grow all week.
“Someone should cut it.”
“You could.”
“I want to watch the cricket.”
You wander out of the room and I stretch out in the bed. I like to pretend that I have all this space to myself. You call my name from the kitchen and I ignore you. You call again, and I finally stand up. I take a faded sundress from the top of the dresser, slipping it over my head and ignoring the stains that cross the skirt. I stand in front of the fan, absorbing the last of its pitiful air.
You call my name again, and I can tell that you’re getting cross with me. I turn the fan off and leave the bedroom. You’re in the kitchen, bumping things around.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
You wave the empty coffee tin at me and I point at the cupboard next to the fridge. My stomach won’t take coffee in this heat, so I pour myself a glass of orange juice.
“You shouldn’t drink from that cup.” You tell me.
“Why not?”
“There’s a chip on the rim.” You slam a coffee cup on the table, spooning International Roast and raw sugar into it. I watch you from next to the sink.
You pour water into you cup and sit at the table. I pour myself some more juice and sit next to you. We finish our drinks silently, and I try to remember a time when we couldn’t stop talking to each other. You scrape your chair across the floor and I wince as another mark appear on the lino. I sit still as you stomp into the living room, listening as the television is switched on and Ritchie Benauds and Mark Taylor flood the house.
I don’t feel like mowing the lawn so I wander back into the bedroom. A sleepy sounding DJ is on the radio, announcing another Beach Boys song. They never play the Beach Boys in winter, when the gentle reminders of the sun would be welcomed. I pull the sheet across the bed, half heartedly tucking the corners in, rearranging the pillows. I pick up the underwear from my side of the bed, but I leave your side of the bed alone.
The air in the bedroom is suffocating and I wish you’d let me open the window. But you always complain about the mosquitoes when I do. I wander out into the living room, where you’ve hung an old blanket across the window to darken the room. You’re spread out on the couch, watching the shining television.
“We could have used that blanket for something else.” I say.
You laugh as another player, from Sri Lanka or South Africa or India, is dismissed. You don’t notice when I leave the room.
The dishes are still stacked next to the sink, even though you promised that you would wash them. I put too much detergent in, and the bubbles are huge. I have to fight the impulse to flick them around the room. I tip a glass of luke warm water over the flowers in the window box. You laughed when I picked them out, told me that they wouldn’t last a week. You cheer in the living room, and I fight the impulse to care.
There’s a Kylie Minogue song playing on the radio. I sit on the bed and try to sing along, but you yell at me to shut up, and I don’t know the words anyway. I lay back onto the pillows and try to fall asleep, but the heat is heavy and I find it difficult to breathe. I stand in front of my closet, searching for the dress I hid down the back. I hid it down the back so you wouldn’t ask awkward questions about money.
The green dress, all shimmer and satin, has never been worn. I saved it for a special occasion, but we don’t have occasions anymore. The material is cool under my fingertips, and I decide to try it on, just for a second, just to make sure it still fits.
It fits perfectly. Thin straps. Very low front. Almost no back. The hem falls in waves around the middle of my calves. The material flows, curved over my hips and breasts, flat over my stomach.
I leave the dress on and tiptoe out of the room towards you. You’re shouting advice and abuse at the screen. I come up behind the couch and lean down towards you, but you just wave me away. I slink around the couch, kneeling in front of you, wiggling my hips a little. I feel the sting as your hand hits the side of my face.
I am falling towards the ground and I have to twist to avoid hitting my head. You leap off the couch and yank me to my feet. Your face is red and your voice hurts my ears.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” You shake me. "I'm watching the cricket, you’re not supposed to disturb me.” Shakes me again. “Take that dress off, you look like a fucking slut. Everyone thinks you’re a slut. You’re probably fucking someone else.”
You push me across the room and I stumble, the small coffee table slamming sharply into my back. You sit on the couch again, scratching your balls and turning the volume up.
I go back to the bedroom and put the sundress back on. I look at my face in the mirror and pull clinging pieces of hair away from the prominent red mark.
I go outside to mow the lawn. You cheer at the television. Australia wins.
I'm on a real original fiction kick at the moment, so stay tuned. Also have some good HP and West Wing ideas.
no subject
on 2002-08-20 03:33 am (UTC)-Dave-
eek . . .
on 2002-08-20 10:51 pm (UTC)Re: eek . . .
on 2002-08-21 02:02 am (UTC)