I wrote something today. I haven’t done that in a long time.
After a while, he’d make the coffee himself. Not before giving her one last fuck, though. Hard. Cum. ‘Good morning’.
Then he’d get out of bed, stroll naked to the kitchen, still sweaty. Put the kettle on, plug his phone into the charger hanging from the table. Cupboard, mug – always the same one, the one she’d first made him a coffee in, the one that meant the least to her. Coffee powder, 3 teaspoons of sugar, boiling water, fridge open and then, ‘Jeez…the red one. I’d forgotten about the red one’.
Once, a long time ago, she’d tried to explain The Red One to him. But he didn’t listen. He never listened. He wasn’t able to listen, or care, about anything, or anyone. Maybe that’s why he was such an incredible fuck. He fucked like nothing…
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