Catherine Micqu

cold coffee

I pushed the door open with my foot, startling you. Your eyes were filled with sleep; mine were full of mischief. I came to your room with the intention to wake you up with the smell of coffee, but seeing you like this; naked, hard, embarrassed; it did things to me.

You were a guest in my house. A friend. The polite thing would have been to apologise and leave. But I couldn’t. I was hungry. Starving. And not for food. You looked at your erection, then at me. I licked my lips and tried to find a safe place for that cup of coffee in my hand.

You sat up and reached for the sheets to cover yourself. I shook my head. “Don’t, ” I croaked. You rose an eyebrow, probably intensely aware of the situation too. I kept my eyes on you, avoiding to see myself ungracefully join you on the mattress through the mirror on the wall.

“Hi, ” you said as if you were seeing me for the first time. Your hand was already in my hair, pulling my head; my lips, to yours.

Outside, rain was joining the wind that had been up all night. Inside, we were joining too.

Everything fit. Profoundly. Almost overwhelmingly. The natural flow of things didn’t take us aback. It didn’t leave room for doubts or vanities. Every touch meant something. Every time I felt your tongue on my heated skin, it felt as if I was becoming a part of you. Your hands explored my body as if they had never done anything else. The weight of you on my tongue was exactly right, and your taste made me swallow you as often as I could. I was drowning in our lust.

When you finally penetrated me, it only took a moment before the world exploded for me. Shivering, sweating, swearing, I encouraged you to keep moving. But you didn’t. You lay on top of me; your hands were caressing my hair, your eyes were searching my face for something that I couldn’t pretend wasn’t there. A smile appeared on your lips. Proud of yourself and how you had undone me, you kissed me. You were pulsating inside of me, but not moving. Heavenly torture. I begged for more, gyrated my hips underneath you, but you were stubborn. And too close to be consumed by our lust too.

Two micro moves later, you stopped breathing. Your sweat was dripping down on me from the tip of your nose; your eyes were closed. A strangled noise left your lips just before you started to breathe again.

I had seen you. I had felt you. And it left me breathless; and not only because your full weight was on my body now. The beauty and surprise of us in this situation was overwhelming. You kissed my temple and rolled off me with a loud groan and a chuckle. Your arm covered your eyes, and your hand was running up and down your stomach. The most handsome man who I had ever been with.

I put my head on your chest, your heartbeat sang a song for me, while I retraced the pattern of the tattoos on your skin. Your eyes were filled with sleep again. I covered us with the crumbled sheet, making sure that the wet spot we left was covering me and not you.

In a while, I would worry about the meaning of it all, but right then I decided to go with the flow and let it happen.

Only the coffee had grown cold.

I hate prompts

Sara’s hands were roaming over the keys of the keyboard. She had always known what to write without giving it too much thought. She sat down, and the words would appear out of nowhere. Page after page were filled this way. It seemed to be a lifetime away now.

It was before Dennis had vanished from her life. Dennis had been her muse. He had been her inspiration. He had made her believe in the beauty of all things. Everything was energy in his eyes, and for a while, he had been her fuel.

Sara covered her face with her hands, shaking her head and letting out a low groan. Chuckling, she cursed. “Damn it, ” she pushed herself away from her desk and stepped to the window. It was dark outside. Pitch black. She could only see her own reflection. It was a sight she had tried to avoid ever since Dennis had left. Her mind threatened to drift from her content present to a grim past.

“Write Sara!” she ordered herself. She drank a glass of tap water and sat down in her chair again. Inspiration was still elusive. Sara began surfing the internet to find something to write about. Something that touched her enough to make her want to put it into words. There was nothing, and she decided to use the help of a site that shared writing prompts. She found hundreds of them. But there was not one that she wanted to work with. “I hate prompts,” she sighed and smiled. Once she had known a man, who used to say the same words. She smiled and let the memory take her away and onto the clouds of a daydream.

Dedicated to R.A. đź’ś

Fate

The hollow is threatening to eat me from the inside out. Everything I was with you is fading away. And it leaves a void. I am missing you. But I forgot who you were for me. I am fading without you. And you keep living your life. People smile at your jokes, or you infuriated them with your eclecticism. I wake up after every lonely night, and our memories keep fading. I can’t remember your smell, and nothing reminds me of your actual presence in my life. But you were there. You were a part of me. You carved yourself out of me, and my empty vessel keeps floating in the wind. Higher and higher. Lighter and lighter. Fading and fading. Until nothing is left of me. Until nothing is left of the person, you once knew.

Could I just….? Could I leave everything behind and start anew?

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Longing. An ever-growing longing settles behind your eyes. A small frown is etched on your forehead. Laughter or a smile are long lost memories. Remnants of joy and happiness try to remind you of the light you are. But your eyes are closed. You cannot see. An ever-growing longing swallows hope. Longing. Longing to belong to someone else.

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Connection disconnected. For most parts of the day, he had tried to connect with people. No one had seen him. No one had made time for him. His mind was tired. Exhausted. Was there even any need to be there when he was invisible. He felt disconnected. Connection disconnected.

On s’en fout !

Et au bout d’un certain temps, tu te rends compte que les gens qui te rassurent qu’ils ne partiront jamais, sont les premiers Ă  s’en lasser de toi. Les gens qui te jurent un amour Ă©ternel sont ceux qui ne sont pas joignable quand tu as besoin de support.

A vrai dire, tout le monde s’en fout.

Sois sage ! Ne dĂ©range pas les vies bien structurĂ©s des autres. Surtout, ne crois pas que tu aies une valeur quelconque. Tu n’es qu’une victoire; une trophĂ©e.

Et tu sais qu’ils n’ont rien Ă  faire de tes Ă©motions.

Alors, continue Ă  galĂ©rer ; continue d’ĂŞtre plus qu’ils voient! Continue de te trouver toi-mĂŞme! Parce-que un jour ils ouvrent les yeux et ils ne te reconnaissent plus.

Ce jour lĂ , c’est toi qui sais dire Ă  voix haute : je m’en fout!

Upside Down – who is Giuseppe

At the other end of town, a middle-aged man was pacing the length of his office. Every once in a while, he looked across the room at two burly men who didn’t dare to look at him. They tried to be as small as they could, given their sizes and the confining space of the leather chairs they sat in. Giuseppe’s rage made a large vein on his forehead appear. It looked intimidating and as if it would pop every moment now.
“One thing. Just one thing,” Giuseppe seethed, pointing a meaty finger at his minions. “That stupid little…, how could you lose her?” The boss was not amused, and the look of his lackeys did nothing to soothe him. “I want my money, and I want the girl. Bring me both. If not, your future is sealed. Now get out of my sight. And don’t come back without Mildred.” Giuseppe rubbed the bridge of his nose to fend off an impending headache he felt.
“Yes Sir,” Tonio and Richard answered in unison and left Giuseppe’s office.
Exhausted, Giuseppe dropped down into his chair, massaging his temples. He looked left and right, making sure that no prying eyes were watching him, and then, out of a folder, he pulled a picture. On it, a younger version of Giuseppe was leaning against a tree. Next to him, another man stood with a little girl on his shoulder. Looking closely, one could see the men holding hands. Lovingly, he traced the other man’s face with one finger, wishing he would be able to touch more than just a fading picture. He remembered the day the photo was taken vividly.
Giuseppe and Connor had taken their daughter on a picnic in the park. They had played ball and fed the ducks; they had played catch and eaten fresh sandwiches Connor had prepared for them. And later in the afternoon, when the girl had been tired, the little family had found this large tree that offered shade for them all. A timer had helped to take this family picture, and minutes later, little Milly had fallen asleep in Giuseppe’s arms.
That time was long gone. Twenty years later, all Giuseppe wanted was revenge. Milly had stolen from him. Not only had she stolen Connor’s heart, but she had taken money that wasn’t hers.
Giuseppe slipped the picture in the folder, hiding it again. He had sought revenge for such a long time; he didn’t know how to stop anymore. If he let Milly go, he would appear soft to the other mobsters around, and his reputation would be damaged beyond repair. Silently and secretly, Giuseppe only wanted peace of mind. He wanted his family back, and he wanted to spend the remaining years of his life in the presence of his little girl and the love of his life. Neither was at his side for now, and as long as he was chasing Milly, she would not be back without a fight. Giuseppe sighed and cursed. Life was complicated. He just hoped Tonio and Richard would not kill Milly when they found her. “Where are you, you silly girl?” Giuseppe asked into the empty room. The question echoed off the walls without a reply.

fear

Fear. I don’t know fear. I never have. I am not able to feel fear. Well, maybe I am, but I am not allowed to feel it. Fear lets one make mistakes and mistakes are deadly. Fear. I am afraid to feel it. To be paralyzed by it. To let it rule me. But here I am and I feel it creeping up my spine and spreading on my neck. Sweat is forming on my forehead, my view becomes blurry. I cannot afford to lose my senses, but here I am; blind, deaf, mute. I cannot see because sweat is continually dripping into my eyes and I can’t wipe it away or make it stop. I cannot hear because the pounding of my own pulse is the only noise in my head. My blood and my thoughts. White noise. The rest of the world is silent. I am silent too. I am silent. Deaf. Mute. Wordless. Barely existing. Nobody knows that I am alive. If I die, nobody knows that I ever existed. Fear. I was never able to feel fear. Now I do. I made mistakes. They paralyzed me. Fear. I don’t know fear. I am fear. I am ruled by it. Fuck fear. Fuck anxiety. I just want to hear, to breathe, to speak. I want to be me. Fuck fear…

Upside Down 2

Josh sat against the far wall, hugging his knees and keeping an eye on the woman in his bed. It wasn’t her beauty that held him captive; it was the gun in her hand. He hadn’t been able to find any sleep, and in the end, he just gave up. Josh was counting the hours until it was time to get up and get ready for work. But then a thought occurred to him. Even if he had to get up, that didn’t mean she would leave. He groaned and stared at the stranger on his bed. The entire situation was unpredictable. He didn’t like that. He loved his routines and his structured life. A stranger entering his life in the middle of the night was not his idea of structure. It was a sure way to chaos. Josh rolled his eyes and got up. His glasses lay on his nightstand, and he fumbled for them in the near dark.

The rustling close to her head woke Milly up. Disoriented in the dark, she sat up and pointed the gun at the stranger ogling her. She saw his face pale, and his Adam’s apple move when gulped.

“What were you doing?” She asked making sure that her voice held enough venom to keep the man away.

“Glasses. I need them,” Josh stuttered.

“Lights!” She ordered, and he just nodded, doing as she said.

“Time?” Milly demanded.

“6:30. Please lady, I don’t want any trouble. Just, please leave so that I can go to work. Please?” The man was brave yet agitated. Milly smiled.

“Sorry, no work for you today, Stutter” Milly laughed. No way she could let him go now.

Josh sighed. “May I get dressed, please?”

“Very polite. Get dressed, and we will plan our next steps over breakfast. I hope you have coffee.” Milly got out of the bed. She wasn’t concerned about the man trying anything on her. She had good people skills and trusted her feeling that she was safe for now. As if she was in her own home, she searched through the man’s drawers to find a fresh t-shirt to wear. Josh felt his ears swallowed with heat as this strange woman rummaged through his personal belongings.

Waiting for his uninvited guest to follow him, Josh stood in the door. Milly switched shirts, retook hold of her gun and trotted behind the man who kept checking is she was still behind him. He got busy with breakfast, and Milly took a look around. There was a large shelf filled with books. She had read some of them too. His music collection was small, but here too, she saw similarities between the albums he owned and the music she had on her phone. The phone she had dropped when she ran from Giuseppe’s minions. Exploring the pictures of the young man, she stopped in her motions. Milly looked from the picture in front of her to the man handling a skillet in the kitchen. It couldn’t be. She had hit the jackpot. With a devious smile and a plan forming in her mind, she joined the man who was preparing her breakfast.

“I am Milly. Sorry for the inconvenience.” She put her gun next to an empty plate and grabbed the mug in front of her. “Milk?” she asked, and Josh pushed a small jug in her direction.

“Josh,” he offered.

“Don’t you mean Richard Joshua Weller Jr?” Milly smiled knowingly. “You are the only son of one of the most wealthy men in this city. Quite a dump you are living in.” She took a sip of her coffee and waited for a reaction. Josh was busted. He had hoped she wouldn’t know who he was. “You are my ticket out of my predicament,” Milly added, one hand on her gun again.

Josh admitted defeat. His heart went like mad. He had been waiting for a situation like this. That he would invite it in through his bedroom window came as a surprise. That it was a woman with legs for days and a smile to kill for was part of the irony that accompanied most of his existence.

“What do you want?” Josh stuttered.

“Money, Stutter. Easy as cake. And your daddy will give me what I need, or his sole heir will not survive this chance encounter,” Milly informed Josh and took a slice of buttered toast from a plate in front of her.

Repost from April 2017 – a strange connection

There sat a man on the stairs of the tube. His hair was hidden underneath a black hoodie, and his pale hands clutched a mobile phone. His jeans-clad legs were bent, and his knees were hugged by his arms. His head rested on his knees, while he captured the scene he saw on video He looked like a tired, sad man. His eyes were at once empty and overflowing with a raging storm. Maybe he was homeless, maybe life had been tough, maybe his mental health was declining. No one could tell for sure. Appearances can be deceiving in this day and age.

A busker stood next to a pillar. His fingers picking at the strings of his worn guitar, and his voice pronounced every word he sang with as many emotions as he could muster that day. His guitar case lay in front of him; opened wide, so that passersby would be tempted to toss in some of the loose change they kept in their pockets. So far not many coins were spread out on the black velvet. The romance of busking in the underground and being discovered accidentally by someone influential was wearing off. Sometimes he wished he hadn’t quit his day job because of a fluke. He had, though, and there was no turning back. And now, he played for people who hurried past him without seeing him, and for homeless drunks like the one on the stairs across from him.

I stood at the busker’s left and observed both men. Both had a similar aura. Tired of their situations. Not of their lives, like me. I felt a momentary connection with these strangers while I projected my own struggles onto them. The man on the stairs looked lost in thoughts and mesmerised by the busker singing and interpreting songs we knew from the radio. And rightly so. He sang a beautiful rendition of Tears for Fears’ Mad World. I hummed along.

The man on the stairs moved his lips in time with the lyrics too.

Three strangers who had no connection whatsoever connected over a song. It was magic. I smiled to myself. It was a strange and foreign sensation for me. During this brief moment of contentment, the man on the stairs looked into my eyes. He nodded ever so slightly and, to me, it seemed as if his eyes were less tired then. A glimmer of hope was shining through his eyes and enveloped my own hopeless self.

The train arrived and the spell that had surrounded us dissipated and vanished with the throng of people invading this space that had been so magical mere seconds ago. The stranger was swallowed by the masses, and when the rushing brook of busy people had turned into a trickle, he was gone, and the busker was packing his guitar too. I turned to leave. Without direction, without purpose. No connection. I had missed the train.

 

(This has been inspired by a short clip of a semi-famous musician posted to his Instagram profile. What I saw in the clip is what I described in the first paragraph.)