An Evening

"I'm bored," says Lucie, tapping me on the collarbone with sharp fingers. Her dark hair hangs down her back like a limp eel.

Lazily I reach for her bitten shoulders and sink my teeth into them again until she wriggles away. Little Miss Mismatched. Her breasts are like pimples, but her waist and thighs swerve into womanly curves. Little jet tufts of hair stick out of the sides of her white cotton knickers. I run my hand along her contours like I'm following a mountain track, and she regards me through half-closed eyelids.

"You can go if you like, you know," I say. "Nobody's making you stay."
"Huh," she eventually says in response, turns over and buries herself in the duvet, pulling it over the plump round of her bottom. When I stop arsing about on the computer and lift the corner to peek at her a few minutes later, she is crying, tears snaking silently down her face.

"There really isn't any point, is there?"
"In what?"
"In living."
"Of course there isn't. You die, I die, we all die without anyone there to remember our names. Now are we going to fuck or what?"

She looks at me sideways through the curtain of her hair, a hint of incredulity curling the corners of her lips. Then she swings forward on her hands and knees, hips swaying slightly.

It's still raining outside.