Part of a book...Hopefully one I'll finish

He lay on the damp floor in dark and fumbled around for his underwear. One stubbed toe and three mosquito bites later he managed to get them on and slipped onto the sofa across from her bathroom door. He wanted to sleep, he wanted a glass of water, but the tap in the bathroom shut off and he knew she would be coming outside soon. She’d want to snuggle and talk, or at the very least snuggle. He idly stroked the fabric of the sofa and tried hard not to feel that surge of self-loathing that rose in his throat.

She was a sweet girl this one. Sweet as they came in this city, no doubt about it. And she was crazy about him, or at least a good enough actress to give him that impression. He could hear her singing to herself in the bedroom. He imagined her walking around there in the dark, naked and full of secret thoughts, heavy with the hash still leaden in her limbs.

He stared at the door, even though he couldn’t see anything at all. She hadn’t even turned the light on inside, walking surefooted around in the dark. He thought of the watchmen downstairs and hoped they were fast asleep on their watch. He didn’t want to have to walk by them with their eyes on him. He didn’t them to look at her in the morning and give those toothy smiles. He realized that he really didn’t want to be here at all. Especially not here, on a couch in the dark in the living room of this woman he barely knew, and wasn't sure he even liked, with her dampness cooling on his body. He had thought he was a better man than this. He chuckled at the stupidity and the sadness of the situation. He had no one to blame, but his relationship with himself was a strange one, so he chuckled and shook his head instead.

She came out still singing. Even in the dark she could see that he wasn’t on the couch. She hadn’t put anything on except her panties. There she stood for a moment, a silhouette soft and dark against the pitch. He hoped to god she didn’t want to talk as she walked over and sat down on his lap, her hand on his cheek and her cheek against his face.

“What are you thinking?” she whispered against his ear.

He giggled. He couldn’t help himself. She pulled back and mock slapped him, which only made him laugh harder.

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“Nothing, really. My mind is numb, and it usually ain’t. Good job you.”

“You want to come and sleep in the bedroom, the AC is on?”

He heard the question behind her question and knew no answer that would be acceptable, so he said nothing and kissed her. She responded with a soft murmur and pressed herself against him. He wished to the gods that he knew what he was doing with her, or even with his own life. Then he could be wise, he could be good, he could be someone he could face in the mirror in the mornings instead of brushing his teeth and showering with the lights off.

It seemed that ever since he hit puberty, there was a need hardwired into his brain, a command code uploaded into his personality – the hunt for a person that could not possibly exist: a perfect mate, a perfect companion. What a ridiculous idea! He knew it was; he was smart enough to know it as part ideology, part Hollywood brainwashing, part English literature seminars, part all the Blues songs he had stashed on his iPod, and part some small vestige of whatever kind of hope he had left snarled around his being.

He should be grateful for the moment, for these sixty-six inches of warm willing flesh whispering in his ear as it shifted and shifted back so deliciously on his lap, for that breath, so sticky and warm, like the smell of a cocoon, wherein all the wounds and the scars were papered over and healed. In a world so cold and unfeeling, where all the people he knew and read about stumbled around lost and rudderless, he knew he should be grateful for whatever warmth he found, no matter how tainted he might feel it to be. But he was nothing if not complicated.

So he kissed her hard and pushed her away. He groped for a good excuse, settled on tired cliché.

“I have an early day tomorrow.”

“I have an alarm,” she replied, masking the hurt with almost enough mockery.

He could feel her above him, still and breathless. He sighed softly, put his arms around her and kissed her again.

“Lead me to your bed chamber, my good woman.”

“You’re a nutcase, you know that?”

“My dear, no have no idea.”

They sprawled on the bed, the covers icy from the well-advertised AC directly above. She snuggled violently for a few moments until she found a position to her liking, during which time she struck him across the face with her elbow. He winced but made not a sound. Pain was better than conversation at this point. Finally satisfied she grasped hold of his arm and drew it over her like a quilt, mumbled something and fell promptly asleep.

As the soft snoring began, he wondered where he could grab a bite to eat this late.