After about two hours of setting up my room, it was finally done. I leaned back and stretched, taking in my room.
The furniture was quite plain. A single bed, a desk, a bookshelf and clothes and coat hangers inside the closet. Nothing about the room had a personal touch, which was honestly the way I liked it. I smiled, satisfied, and headed to the kitchen. Half a bottle of stir fry sauce, a packet of vegetables and some tofu later, I had a nice stir fry going. Now, I don't claim to be an amazing cook, but I'm not terrible either. Especially for a student (seriously, students, learn to cook). I'd sat down at the table and was just about to get started when the door clicked and Sarah walked in. My heart did a little flutter, but I kept it together.
"Hey. How was your class?"
"Oh yeah, it was good?"
"I forgot to ask. What are you studying?"
"Language. I do a little math on the side."
"CRYP?"
"Yeah. I guess you do it too."
"Yeah."
An awkward silence passed. I waited for her to say something, but she just sat down at the table.
"Mm, looks good. So what did you make, Mr. Hill?"
a quick side note. I got pretty smashed tonight. Drunk as all hell. Is it sad that I wish Sarah was here? That's not her name... But regardless, that person would've loved to be here. She would hold my hand and make sure I was okay. She would drink as much as I drink and then a little more. She's the type of girl who was always there. At the end, I'll release what really happened between 'Sarah' and 'Oscar' but for now, what happened will remain a stain on my soul, mine to bear alone.
"Yeah, it's a pretty simple meal."
"Is that tofu?"
She sounded impressed. I gestured for her to eat. She plucked a piece off my plate and popped it in her mouth. As she chewed she closed her eyes, a satisfied smile crossing her face.
"It's good. May I?"
I nodded acknowledgement and she took a seat opposite me, piling the meal onto her plate. I was surprised how quickly she ate. She practically wolfed down the meal and after finishing, she elicited a very unladylike burp, before covering her lips and giggling.
"Thanks, I really needed that... You know, I was going to go out, but after that, I think I'll stay in. Would you like to watch a movie with me?"
"Sure... But the TV doesn't have a player."
"In my room, idiot."
"Ah. Sure, I'll get changed first."
I walked back to my room and spent a minute debating those comfortable pyjamas or the classy looking shirt. I ended up giving in to simplicity and chose the pyjamas. I made my way back to Sarah's room and noticed her change of getup. She was wearing a floral white and blue gown, clearly no bra, and was sitting at her desk. Now, this isn't something people mention often, but the lack of a bra gives a well endowed girl a certain change in appearance. Her breasts were well defined, the valley between them being particularly noticeable. They seemed to be mostly immune to gravity, but not surgically so. Tl;Dr, her tits looked great. I tried to avoid staring (but I have no doubt I failed miserably).
Since she was in the seat, I went for the obvious choice and lay down in her bed, pushing to the far edge. The sheets had a distinct "her" odour (as gross as that sounds, it was actually really nice. It smelled like cinnamon and garlic, for those of you wondering).
She eventually got the movie going and I internally groaned as the opening scenes of 'The Notebook' began playing. I'm pretty sure some celestial supreme being was exchanging irony points (hint hint, this has to do with the long term plot).
"You know, I've never watched this," she said in her singsong voice.
The sound of her voice perked me up (and made me drop my guard) so, I replied,
"I watched it once with my ex."
She glanced at me, a small crease forming above her eyebrows, before she turned back to the screen. That should probably have been my warning indicator, but my internal EWR was malfunctioning.
"It's pretty good, but a little... You know... Chick - flicky for my taste," I continued, like an idiot.
"Fine. Would you like to watch something else?" she asked, curtly. It was a sharp enough response that even my damaged tactfulness picked up on the sore point and I immediately attempted to backtrack.
"No, of course not. I'd love to watch it with you."
In retrospect, I know that sentence, combined with the warmth I injected into my voice, was the perfect thing to say. Her sour mood vanished and she smiled at me, before returning to fiddling with the volume balance (she maxed the treble). Apparently satisfied, she pushed her chair back, stretched (yes, I watched intently. Dude, she's hot. Get off my back) and dove next to me on the bed. Unfortunately, I didn't see it coming and, somehow, we ended up spooning. She glanced down at our entwined legs, pointedly, and I immediately withdrew, stumbling over an apology in the process. She giggled at my awkwardness as she made a hushing motion, and rotated in the bed to face the screen, cheeks slightly pink. Now, I'm not much of an ass guy, but that tush is fan-fucking-tastic. The proximity of her excellent hind to my crotch forced me to dedicate some mental processing power to maintaining an acceptable degree of semi-flacidness, lest she notice my slowly engorging mast poking her rear. Over the course of the movie, I gauged her reaction to various scenes. I observed three phenomena in particular. She didn't cry once during the film, even during tear jerkers, she rapidly blinked away any growing tears. She became agitated during tense scenes, her back becoming rigid and her hand gripping mine. Trust me, I wasn't complaining. And, slowly, over the course of the entire film, her legs gradually curled around mine. This, I did complain about, internally, as there was little I could do about my now raging hard on. And I'm sure she noticed. At one point, during a boring phase of the movie, she ground the back of her pelvis against mine, intentionally and I swear, she moaned ever so slightly. My dick was in the crevice of her lower cheeks, the tip resting against her lower. Trust me, I wasn't complaining. And, slowly, over the course of the entire film, her legs gradually curled around mine. This, I did complain about, internally, as there was little I could do about my now raging hard on. And I'm sure she noticed. At one point, during a boring phase of the movie, she ground the back of her pelvis against mine, intentionally and I swear, she moaned ever so slightly. My dick was in the crevice of her lower cheeks, the tip resting against her lower back. When the film ended, she turned around, rapidly blinking.
“No.” She stated.
“Sorry, what?”
“No. Just don’t say anything. Just hold me, for a few more minutes, so I can pretend to feel loved.”
I really, really wanted to say something, but instinct was driving me to ignore that urge. I literally counted three hundred seconds before I spoke.
“You know… you are loved.”
“Oh really? By who? You? We just met.”
“Maybe not me, but I think, no, amendment, I am certain, that someone, somewhere loves you. You’re too loveable to not be loved.”
“Bullshit.”
“Your parents love you.”
“My parents are dead.”
She said it so blandly, so emotionlessly, that I was shocked into silence. I literally didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.
“You probably think I’m some attention seeking slut, grinding into your dick like that, then pulling this ‘Oh, look at miserable me’ horseshit.”
She was venting. I’d learned what her venting voice sounded like earlier, so I remained silent. She didn’t take that too well.
“Leave.”
It was an order. I thought about stubbornly staying, but it was her room and her space, so I chose not to be a petulant child and got up. On the way out, I leaned against the doorframe and glanced back at her. Her hair was over her face and she was staring down at her lap. I didn’t see any tears. I inwardly cursed myself for the decision I was about to make, and I walked away, closing the door softly in my wake. I thought I caught a sob just before the door closed, and, I couldn’t help myself, I peeked my head back in.
“LEAVE!”
Her voice was flavoured with authority and a touch of, what I thought, was fury. But no tears. Never tears.
Here, now, staring at the 105 etching on my cell wall, counting the days I had been here, I realise... She has never cried in front of me. She didn’t cry in Jalalabad, she didn’t cry in Mosul, she didn’t cry Bhairahawa. I had never seen her cry. I’d seen her face, twisted in pain, grief, fury. But I’d never, not once, seen her cry. I know she can manufacture her emotions. I know how “in control” she is. I remember reading the CIA assassination reports, her formal training over the years. She was considered exceptional because of her lack of an emotional response to traumatic situations. I think I’m one of the rare people who can say I knew, really knew, Sarah Laine. And she never cried.
