I wouldn't call Patrick my boyfriend. I'm lucky enough to have a man who wants to meet me at 3 a.m, feed me expensive vodka, and laugh at my stupid jokes while we watch a skipping VHS tape of Jumanji. Bonus points that he has an amazing career while I burn through laptops being an advertising slave.
Like most 20-something daters, romance is dead. We go to bed together and develop a sense of intimacy without all of the dying flowers and incessant calls. Patrick and I have an agreement: it is plainly just sex and a cordial handshake in public. We'll meet eyes with an unspoken gaze that screams "We will be naked together tonight."
I understand it. I am not the girl to take home to Mom. My relationships crash and burn but I met Patrick outside of a bar and decided to tell him everything that is wrong with his lifestyle. He took my hands and we did a waltz instead. It's been a weekly thing for as long as I can remember.
Am I proud of this? I've forgotten what pride is. I maintain a strong do-not-fuck-with-me vibe and take my own personal pride in getting what I want. I have my career, he has his. Like clockwork, none of us gets hurt and none of us expect anything better than a sweaty twist in the sheets with my cigarette-laden breath and affinity for his spirits in the fridge afterwards.
Last night was different. Patrick is different. He's different now.
Patrick and I recently experienced losses in our lives that can't be replaced. We grieved silently and accepted these rewards that are only offered to family and friends who want nothing more than their loved ones back. We 'liked' each other's suffering on Facebook but kept one another in mind without grabbing the phone and sharing mutual sobs.
But last night was different.
I called Patrick at our favorite bar and didn't get a response. This was typical. I downed another drink and went home to spend too much time on click-bait links and watching sitcoms until I fell asleep.
Hours later, I get a call from "Patrick B" and accept it. He picked me up within minutes and we enjoyed a hip-hop concert on HBO before heading to his luxury sheets and what or who came next.
Ever the paramour, I ask Patrick to tell me a story before sleep and hoped for a round two. He reaches into my purse and grabs a cigarette. Taking a lighter to the end and inhaling the stick to his mouth, he begins.
"There was a man in the woods..."
"Oh shut up, you know how every good story starts," I laugh in his face and take back my cigarette.
"Once upon a time, princess. Once upon a time, there was a man in the woods. But he wasn't alone. The woods sang with creatures and the man wanted to hear their voices. The woods were alive."
He paused and placed a hand on my hip.
"Is that it?" I asked, absentmindedly ashing on the floor. My dude was not known for his subtlety or showmanship.
My smile stopped when I heard his low baritone turn to a different dialect.
"He couldn't fight the creature that came from the trees and started to devour him. He couldn't stop. The creature wore his skin and killed everything that he loved. I am him and we are all the creature."
I pulled the blankets up and put on my best pondering face.
"What was the creature, baby? You're missing a few details in this."
Patrick grabbed me by the throat. Usually tender in our lovemaking, this was a harsh bite and I struggled to breathe as he hissed.
"We don't have time. He will tear you from flesh to bone. We are his servants and he is our master. He is us. He is what we are doing."
He began chanting in Latin before I passed out. I woke up in his bare apartment with his cell phone buzzing incessantly. Patrick was still asleep so I made him coffee and tried to piece together my night.
The kitchen was eerily silent before it moaned. Every creak from the refrigerator was echoed among the apartment. I put my hands to my ears and could still hear Patrick snoring upstairs and a slight creaking noise from all corners of the condo.
He found me with my head in my hands and laughed before he drove me home. Patrick with his usual bed head hairstyle kept up with his regular jokes about stupid songs on the radio and chastised me for my late night habits. When I went to give him a cheek kiss goodbye, the face from last night returned.
"Remember what I said. He will come for you. This is wrong, wrong, wrong. Sixteen. Six, six, six, sixteen."
He smiled with a lifetime of whitening toothpaste and expensive dental work. He shook his head and got out to open the door for me.
"Sorry I was such a mess last night," he said. "Too much to drink but you know how it is."
I muffled up the courage to sputter out a sentence before he got into his car.
"You know, it's not the end of the world."
Patrick sped out and I watched him on CNN tonight talking about his 2016 election. I'm not sure how to take this. Any advice, NoSleep?
Submitted January 24, 2015 at 11:57AM by pr0sthetic http://ift.tt/1B2eqPm nosleep
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