ds_flashfiction | Cliche #12

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These past two weeks I’ve had too much time to spend inside my own head, too little distraction. Even now I’m sitting on the sofa in the near silent apartment, with Dief’s irritated huffing because I refuse to turn on the television. The taps no longer drip, and I’ve taken the battery out of the clock. I want to be able to listen for Ray.

I miss him. It seems absurd really, but I miss his eyes. The way they sparkle mischievously, or blaze in anger or indignation, when they’re darkened and heavy-lidded combined with that sensual pout. I miss his smile, the small, quick grins he flashes at me, and when his whole face is alive with laughter, much too infrequently.

I miss watching him move, the way he uses his slender hands to articulate his thoughts. I’ve sometimes wondered whether, if I held his hands still he would be reduced to incoherence. Him dancing, and the way he almost floats, like the “headkicking” boots are the only things keeping him earthbound.

At last I hear those boots echoing in the hall outside, accompanied by the familiar smell of pizza. I can detect the sweet/sour tang of pineapple. Dief’s nails clatter on the wooden floor, no doubt planning an ambush. The key turns in the lock and the door opens a crack.

“Down, wolf. Back up or you won’t get anything. Hey,” he says in my direction.

“Hi Ray. Please don’t give Dief any pizza. He’s already had dinner.” I know my request is hopeless.

There is a thump on the table, too heavy to be pizza alone, and then the familiar sounds of Ray’s homecoming, jacket tossed on the chair, boots kicked underneath, gun, holster and cuffs in the desk.

“Hear that, Dief? No snacking. He been out?”

“Yes, Emilio took him for a walk after school.”

“Great. Emilio’s still reading you Harry Potter? I’m gonna read to you tonight, but it wont be as much fun.”

Ah, that thump must have been case files. I feel an embarrassing rush of pleasure that he’s brought work home to discuss with me. He wanders over to the sofa and rests a hand on my shoulder. I turn my head towards it, sniffing his fingers, trying to catalogue his day. Sugar, the powdered kind found on donuts, which means his mouth will taste of coffee and chocolate. An acrid smell underneath the harsh detergent used in the washroom at the station. It takes me a moment to place it, while he strokes my cheek. Toner. No blowback.

Petting my hair now, “Sorry about the pizza, but today’s been a bitch. Tell me how come I’m more tired after a day doing paperwork than running over the rooftops of Chicago?” He traces a finger round the bandage over my eyes and sighs. “This comes off the day after tomorrow, right? Miss your eyes. Miss you looking at me.”

His sentiment, so in concert with my own, makes my throat close over and I slide my arms around his waist, pressing my face into his belly and muttering, “Miss you.”

“Freak.” His voice is as gentle as the fingers in my hair.

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Cliche #12

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