Fragment #27 - I can't

Is there anyone but me who can think during a long passionate kiss? I do think Mike is one the best kisser I’ve ever known. Probably he’s got the experience to go with this kind of skill. How would I know? He didn’t answer my questions, none of them. He was just joking about how seductive mystery can be. But do I find this mystery thing appealing anymore? I couldn’t stand him eluding all the questions about the people he cares for. What was he doing in London, which kind of person was he? He fits in so well at the Viper, in the nocturne life, maybe was he a barman yet? But to me, he is still only Mike, this enigmatic man working in my favourite club, who came in Glasgow one day with this sluttish French girl I never heard about again. He has no past: how could he have any future? Am I not asking the questions properly?

His hand is going down my spine. This doesn’t warm me up at all. Nothing is happening for me: we are making out, and I just think. The over-thinking habit is back, no doubt about it; whereas being with Mike used to be so magical. I just needed to close my eyes, empty my mind and let it go with the sensations. This is not happening anymore. I want details. I want something more. I feel guilty to want to make him fit my expectations, but this doesn’t change anything: I can’t help having those. It would be so easy to keep this superficial though.

He lifts my top. He starts kissing my neck, my shoulders. He wants to remove my trousers; I’m not in at all: I just want to cry.

“I can’t. Sorry Mike, I'm not feeling well, I should just go.”

He looks bewildered. Of course he does… I put my top and my jumper back on. I grab my coat and my bag next to his room’s door. I don’t dare to look back at him, I run away. He might be looking at me, his dark hair uncombed. He’s got this three-day beard which makes him look today like the bad boy he might be…

He doesn’t run after me.