No names. No talking. Those are the rules.
She doesn’t mind; his mouth is better suited to other things than talking.
They locked eyes across the smoky haze of the bar, and Sonja was a goner.
Lightning, sparks. Someone lit a match inside her very soul.
All those things she’d heard other women talk about. All those saccharine fantasies in books and movies. All the things she couldn’t even imagine, let alone believe in.
He made her come alive, and they hadn’t even touched yet.
That came later, out back in the parking lot against his car, underneath the electric glow of the street lamp, out where anyone could see.
She keeps hoping that will happen one of these nights. Wants someone to see her splayed out on the hood with his face buried between her legs. Wants to be watched while he bends her over and fucks her like he owns her.
(There used to be a thin indent around his left ring finger. He didn’t bring it up, and she didn’t give a shit. But she likes the fact that it’s not there anymore.)
He looks at her like a predator; the sounds they make are like wild animals.
That’s what they are. That’s all anyone really is.
Just animals. No names. No talking.
Maybe part of her is curious what it would be like to moan his name, hear hers on his lips.
Maybe part of her wonders what it would be like to wake up in bed beside him.
But that’s not part of the game. That’s not who they are. And domesticity would wear out its welcome fast. She’s not the kind of girl you bring home. Never has been.
(Even if she feels a longing for it now. Not every animal is a wanderer.)