Miss Atomic Bomb

You knock back the last shot, the whiskey burning your throat, filling you with fire and passion for a brief moment before you settle back into your pit of angst. It's a typical night at the bar; football on the TV, repetitive music on the radio, cigarette smoke in the air, young groups and couples sitting together at booths, eating hot wings. A buzz of noise fills the air, the mood cheerful and upbeat. It's almost too much to bear. If it weren't for Lyra's insistence upon you coming every other night to try to rid yourself of your social anxiety, you would never dream of coming here.

The term "social anxiety" is tossed around a lot these days, to the point where its true meaning has been lost. You don't know what the true meaning is, but you know that it does not apply to... whatever you have. A better term might be "hatred of people". Lyra always laughs when you say this, as if she thinks you're joking. If only you were. It's not your fault that people are fucking idiots; all you can do is try to avoid them. Your only real friend is Lyra Heartstrings, the beautiful harpist who possesses the ability to somehow calm the roar of the crowd at the bar enough for her playing to be heard. You've never seen a harpist play at a local bar like this, especially one as talented as Lyra; but Lyra seems to enjoy it, and, to your constant surprise, so do the bar patrons. Although you have the suspicion that their enjoyment may have less to do with the harp, and more to do with Lyra's low-cut neckline and short skirt. She certainly has a body, there's no denying that.

You watch her as she ascends the short flight of steps leading up to the raised platform on the far side of the bar, as the radio is turned off and the patrons turn their heads to look. The stage is small, a ten-foot-by-ten-foot platform, typically meant for a single musician. Lyra was generally the only live music the bar got, so as a small thank you to go along with her paycheck, someone had a large neon harp crafted and hung on the wall to illuminate the stage. Lyra looks at it, and smiles, as she always does. Then, she sits on the stool, positions her harp, and begins to play.

You sigh in admiration as her fingers dance over the strings, as does every other man in the room, and the occasional woman. Unlike them, however, you are admiring her musical gift, and not her slightly-too-exposed breasts. You close your eyes as the notes play across your ears, sending shivers down your spine. After a moment, it ceases to sound like music; your eyes still closed, the sound calls to mind a flowing stream, each note produced by the clear water dancing over the rocks. Then, after a few moments, the music changes, subtly, and yet drastically enough that it is no longer a stream in your mind's eye, but the wind rustling through the leaves of a forest in spring. You can almost feel the sunshine on your face, the breeze tousle your hair. For what feels like an eternity of bliss, Lyra's music calling to mind tranquil scene after tranquil scene, the pace increases for what can only be the finale. Now it is a roaring fire, warming and comforting you, crackling merrily and yet with fierce power not to be reckoned with; the music paints the fire in its prime, but then it begins to fade. The inferno burns down to coals, but coals to embers; and then, with the last dying breath of a single cinder, the music stops.

You open your eyes, fighting back tears, as the bar explodes into applause. You join, your hands making but a small contribution to the thunderous clapping; but it is at you that Lyra looks, smiling and waving slightly. You wave back, hoping that you don't look conspicuous in your emotions. You wipe your eyes, and look again to see Lyra walking towards you. She sits on the bar-stool next to you, and the bartender immediately hands her a beer, on the house. Yet another perk of being the sole musician at a crappy bar.

She pops off the tab of the beer and takes a drink, sighing. "Well," she says. "That was shitty."

Your jaw drops in disbelief. "Shitty?" you repeat, aghast. "That was one of the best musical performances I've ever seen. Not just from a harpist. Like, ever."

She smirks. "I dunno," she says. "I just wasn't really feeling it, I guess. I just want it to be perfect."

You roll your eyes. "For a perfectionist, you sure don't know perfection when you, well, hear it."

She opens her mouth to reply but suddenly is enveloped in the embrace of her girlfriend, Bonnie, or as Lyra calls her, Bon Bon. Lyra laughs and pushes Bon Bon off of her, kissing her as she does so. Their lips dance together for a moment, as you try not to look.

Bonnie finally pulls away from the kiss. "That was freaking fantastic!" she says.

Lyra sighs in exasperation. "No, it wasn't-" she begins, before she is shush'd by Bon Bon, and then the two are kissing again. This is how it usually is. This is also usually the point where you exit the bar. The two of them want to be together, and you're not one to interfere with that. Lyra will chalk your exit up to your "social anxiety", as she always does. And that's fine. Just gives you an excuse to be alone. You stand up, giving Lyra one last thumbs up before you walk towards the exit, push open the door, and step into the cold mid-October night air.

The entrance to the bar is in an alley next to an old abandoned building, not far from the town library. Flyers and old newspapers blow around in the wind, giving truth to the cliched images of back alleys so often seen onscreen. Stepping outside was risking getting mugged, but that hadn't happened to anyone in a while. Perhaps the muggers heard Lyra's music and decided that there was more to life than beating the shit out of people.

You walk toward the street, illuminated by a single lamp post. It's a depressing sight, really. As you approach the exit of the alley, you hear the clinking of metal on concrete and stop dead. There it is again; it appears to be coming from outside the alley, not in the shadows behind you. Good. So you won't be getting stabbed in the back, at least.

You breathe a sigh of relief as a tin can rolls past the alleyway, and laugh at your own cowardice. You turn the corner to walk towards you house, and suddenly your face is buried in a mess of rainbow hair. Before you can react, you are pushed to the ground, and kicked violently in the gut. Pain erupts through your abdomen, and you manage to roll away before any more blows can land.

"Wait," you manage to gasp, searching for your own breath. "Wait!"

You look up, and see your assailant frozen in place, eyes locked onto you, hands balled into fists, arm drawn back, ready to strike. Realization quickly dawns on her face, and her look of fierce aggression is replaced by horrified concern.

"Oh, God," she says, and begins talking all at once. "I'm so sorry. Are you alright? You came out of the alley and ran into me so I thought you were mugging me so I fought back and oh my God I hope I didn't hurt you, please tell me I didn't hurt you."

"I'm fine," you wheeze, your breath finally returning to you. "I'm fine. I swear. I don't blame you. I would have done the same thing." You stand shakily, brushing the dirt from your clothes.

Finally, it registers who she is. It's her. The Girl With the Rainbow Hair. What the fuck is she doing here?

You've seen her, practically everywhere. At the library, at the café, walking the streets... It's impossible not to see her, really. That hair is one of the most recognizable things on earth. And for some crazy reason, it is because of this that you, well, don't hate her. Everyone else you see, every other random stranger, warrants from you an automatic hatred, because society as a whole is comprised of fucking idiots. Conformists, sheep, people who exist to be like other people; individuality is a thing of the past. There is no uniqueness anymore. Those who consider themselves unique do so by making themselves look like a member of a specific crowd or social clique.

Her, however... You've never seen anyone like her. You know practically nothing about her, but the fact that she distinguishes herself from the masses in a way that no one else seems to even want to, that fact alone has caused you to harbor a secret love for her. Not a romantic love, or physical lust; you just love her for her individuality. And part of you always knew that you could not have her. You could never explain why. You just knew that she was above you in every way. Out of your league. Plus, you never had the courage to even approach her. And that same part of you did not want to. For to approach her and know her was to ruin the illusion of her perfect individuality. What if she turned out to be like the rest? What if she was not the perfect girl that you'd envisioned her to be for all this time?

And yet here she is, in front of you, rose-red eyes filled with concern. She's wearing a navy blue jacket, unzipped and billowing behind her like a cape in the wind. Underneath is a sky-blue tank-top, featuring a cloud producing a rainbow lightning bolt; her own personal logo, you guess. On her left wrist is a sweat-band with the same symbol. Her white shorts are far too short for this sort of weather. With a jolt, you realize that she is shivering; but she doesn't seem to notice.

Her eyebrow raises slightly as you remain silent. Shaking your head, you repeat again that you're fine. "What about you?" you say. "You seem a little... Cold."

She looks down, suddenly self-conscious, and pulls her jacket around her torso. "I'm alright," she says. "I just need to get home."

"What's your name?" you ask awkwardly.

"Dash," she says. "Just call me Dash. What's yours?"

You tell her your name, stuttering a bit as you shiver in the night air.

"Alright," she says. "So... Hey, why don't you come back to my house for a drink? It's the least I could do for you after, you know, kicking the crap out of you."

"You did not 'kick the crap out of me'", you say defensively. "You just caught me a bit off guard. That's all."

"So if you'd been prepared, you would have retaliated and kicked the shit out of me?" she asks teasingly.

The language is a pleasant surprise. You hesitate, unsure of whether this is a trick question. "Erm... I'm gonna leave that at a solid maybe. Depending on how terrified I was."

She giggles. "Alright, fair enough. So, how about that drink?"

You nod, smiling what you hope is your most charming smile. Although from previous practice in the mirror, you know that even that is sickly at best.

You begin walking with her in the opposite direction of your house, her shivering now more pronounced. Frowning, you remove your brown leather jacket and drape it around her shoulders. She jumps a bit in surprise, but soon grabs the edges and hugs it tightly around herself. Her shivering lessens somewhat.

The cold air tears right through your thin Green Day t-shirt, causing you to shudder, but you try to ignore it. You walk in silence for a while, before the silence becomes unbearable and you decide to voice the only valid question you can think of.

"So, why the hell are you dressed like that?"

Dash shrugs. "It's just how I dress. Not really the best choice this time of year, huh?"

You shake your head, unsure of what to say next. Conversations were never really your thing.

"What about you?" Dash asks. "What are you doing coming out of one of the crappier bars in town at..." she checks her watch. "12:16 A.M.?"

"I was listening to a friend of mine play some music," you answer. "She prefers to play later in the evening."

"You don't say," Dash says sarcastically. "Let me guess, Lyra?"

"Yeah," you say, surprised. "You know her?"

"Yep. She and I used to have a thing going together."

You raise your eyebrows, not bothering to hide your surprise. Then her face breaks into a grin. "I'm kidding, dumbass," she says, punching you lightly on the shoulder. "She's been with Bonnie for as long as I can remember. Everyone's wondering when the hell one of them is gonna propose."

You rub your shoulder, feigning pain. "You sure are friendly," you say, without really meaning to.

Her grin lessens a bit. "Well, yeah," she says. "Kicking the shit out of someone is about as intimate as you can get with a stranger, outside of fucking them. I don't see much point in formality."

"Fair enough." You shiver again, crossing your arms across your chest. "How far is your house from here?"

"Right up the road," she answers. "That's it, there. The white one with the light on upstairs."

She leads you to the front door, unlocks it, and opens it. Immediately inside is a small entryway with a coat-rack, on which Dash hangs both her jacket and yours. You enter into the main room, where you are greeted by a myriad of posters of every sort, plastering the cream-colored walls, all organized in neat rows, some framed. Bands, movies, and books are all advertised in Dash's living room, as well as a few posters and fliers for the Wonderbolts, the world famous squadron of stunt-pilots. You take it all in for a moment as Dash locks the door behind her. Then she leads you through the arch-shaped entrance to her kitchen, a large white room with marble countertops and polished stone floor tiles. To the right of the entrance, on the far side of the room is a bar, complete with swiveling bar-stools and liquor-stocked cabinets. It occurs to you how much money Dash must have to afford all this.

"So... What is it that you do, exactly?" you ask, genuinely curious.

Dash looks around. "Ah," she says. "Wondering about all this?... I'm actually a pilot. Not commercial; I fly small jets full of wealthy, drunk individuals and their adoring wives, and occasionally more modest middle-class families who have been saving for years just to afford it. Either way, it pays well." She sighs, her head dropping slightly. "I fucking hate it."

This comes as a shock. "You hate it?... I would have thought that you love flying, I mean, judging by all the Wonderbolts posters out there."

She shakes her head. "I love flying. More than anything. What I do," she pauses for emphasis, her mouth a straight line of disdain. "is not flying. It's going in a straight line between two points in a plane full of people too chickenshit to try anything exciting." Suddenly, she jerks her head up to look at you, her eyes full of light and passion. "I have flown once. I mean, really flown. I got the chance to fly with one of the Wonderbolts once. Not pilot the plane, just ride in the secondary seat. I blacked out. I fucking blacked out. That, is flying. That is what I want to do, more than anything in the world. I dream of piloting one of those planes, seeing the earth spiral away from me as I corkscrew into the troposphere, hearing the thunderclap as I break the sound barrier..." her eyes are far away. You wonder if she even remembers that you're there. She sighs again. "Yeah. That's what I want to do."

Without looking at you, Dash walks behind the bar, opens the cabinets, and removes a bottle of whiskey from the top shelf. She extracts two glasses from beneath the polished countertop, and walks over to the freezer. "Ice?" she asks. You nod. She puts three cubes in each glass, pours the amber liquid in equal measure, and hands one to you. You take a sip, feeling the pleasant burning of the alcohol for the second time that night. This whiskey was of a much higher stock than what you drank at the bar. Probably expensive as hell. But then again, Dash could afford it.

You both drink in silence. She finishes her glass and pours another for herself before you even finish your first. After taking her last swallow, she sets the glass down. "What about you?" she asks. "What do you enjoy?"

You take a moment to think about how to best describe yourself. "Fuck, I don't know," you say, scratching an itch on the back of your head. "I work at the café up the street from here. Talk about a shit job... One can only take so much of those 'coffee shop' types, bringing their laptops and books to the shop so they can do exactly what they do at home only in public. Describing them as 'pretentious' would be an understatement." You exhale sharply, closing your eyes. "Other than that, I don't do anything. I mean, my free time consists of binge-watching Supernatural on Netflix, and porn. There's not much to my life." Whiskey tends to do this to you. At least you're honest.

Dash smiles sadly. "I know the feeling," she says. "You got a girlfriend? Boyfriend? Surely you maintain some sort of social life."

You shake your head, no. You've never really bothered with anything of that sort. This conversation is the most dialogue spoken between you and an attractive girl since high school. Even in high school, the exchanges were brief and awkward. You're surprised you've even gotten this far with her. You're not a virgin, but your first time was with a girl at a party your senior year. Both of you were drunk, and you barely remember a thing about it other than a blurred memory of her face. "What about you?" you ask, trying not to sound to curious.

"Nah," she says dismissively. "Piloting and fangirling don't allow much time for relationships, outside of the occasional one-night-stand."

"Is that what I am?" you ask, the words slipping out before you have time to think. "A one-night-stand?"

Dash's eyebrow raises, but her smile remains. She doesn't say anything for a moment. She takes another sip of her whiskey, before replying, "Possibly."

And then she winks at you.

It takes a lot of willpower just to keep your jaw from dropping. This simply does not happen to you. Ever. But you sure as hell won't pass up the opportunity.

You smile with one corner of your mouth, and take another drink, finishing the whiskey left in your glass. "Alright."

"But," Dash says. "If you wanna get into my pants, I'm gonna need to have a helluva lot more to drink. And at least get to know you a little better." She beckons you over with her index finger, gesturing for you to sit down on the stool next to her. You sit, facing her, and she pours another glass for both you and her. Then she reaches forward and lays her hand on yours, resting by your knee. Her thumb traces little circles on the back of your hand, the remaining fingers reaching under to grasp your palm. It's a surprisingly pleasant experience. "So," she says. "There's one detail that is absolutely essential for me to know about you." she pauses, and you sit in anticipation, until, with a perfectly straight face, she says, "Porn preference."

You burst out laughing, having luckily just swallowed the whiskey in your mouth as to not spray her. "Of course," you say, still chuckling. "The single most important detail for any two people to know about each other." She laughs as well, and you begin to relax a little more.

You suddenly realize that Dash is nothing like you expected her to be. She is even better. She is the single best, most unique person you have had the privilege of meeting. And now, it's not her hair that keeps your attention fixed upon her. It's the sheer amount of fire and vigor radiating from her very presence, from those beautiful rose-red eyes, that make you realize that you want more than anything to be more to her than just a one-night-stand. You begin to question your previous certainty that you can not have her. It is suddenly a major possibility. The way she is looking at you... It's hard to tell whether that's adoration, or just lust. Either way, you're pretty okay with it.

"My porn preference..." you begin. "Is whatever I can find on the homepage that's appealing within five minutes of getting a boner. My tastes aren't so refined that I can afford to be picky with my pornography." You take another drink, finishing the glass. You slide it over, and Dash refills it. "What about you?" you say. You never thought you'd ever get the chance or even have a reason to ask a girl that question.

"Pretty much the same, minus the boner," she answers, grinning slyly. "Beggars can't be choosers."

"Amen," you say, raising your glass. She raises hers as well, clinking it against yours, and you both drink, finishing both of your glasses.

Dash turns to grab the bottle, only to find it nearly empty. A thin pool of whiskey sits on the bottom of the bottle. Smiling at you, Dash raises the bottle, and puts it to her lips, tilting it. Before she completely drains it, she swallows, and offers the bottle to you. You gladly accept. You put your lips to the glass, and the small bit of liquid that is left rolls down into your mouth. You savor it for a bit, eyes closed, before you swallow and set the bottle back on the counter, sighing contently.

You look back at Dash to find her staring at you, eyes filled with hunger. Her hand is still entwined in yours; she pulls your hand to rest on her bare leg, her smooth skin warm to the touch. She continues to pull it upward along her leg, until you reach the edge of her shorts. You both stand, your hand moving upward further to grasp her thigh, firm and refined. She wraps both of her arms around your waist as your right arm drapes around her shoulders. You stare into her eyes for a moment, increasingly aware of the tightness in your jeans, until she leans in and your lips meet. Fireworks explode in your mind, as your lips play over hers, her tongue dancing lightly between the gaps in your lips. You hold her ass tighter, bringing her body in closer to your own.

She kisses you harder, moaning slightly into your mouth as your hand moves from her ass to up the back of her tank-top, your fingers tracing the length of her spine. You fumble with the clasp of her bra for a moment, smiling in satisfaction as it releases. Dash breaks away from the kiss, and begins to pull off the tank-top.

"Bedroom?" you suggest eagerly.

"No," she says. "Right here." Your look of confusion causes her to grin, flicking her tongue across her lips. "Fuck me on the countertop."

Well, if she insists.

You try not to stare too much as she fully pulls off her top, her unclasped bra falling away to reveal her perfectly formed breasts, just the right size to be able to squeeze, with perky, upward-facing nipples. She steps forward and plants her lips against yours once more, while grabbing your hand and placing it on her left breast. You squeeze gently, your fingers working circles around her nipple, flickering over it now and again, feeling it harden at your touch. You move your other hand up and do the same with her other breast, as she begins to remove your t-shirt. You break the kiss as she pulls your shirt over your head, revealing your muscled physique. Her eyes widen slightly.

"Just Netflix and porn, huh?" she asks, eyebrow raised again in that incredibly sexy way. As a response, you kiss her again, not as hard as before, guiding her hand to the crotch of your jeans. Without looking down, she undoes your belt and unzips your jeans, popping open the button and working them off of you, revealing your length straining against the confines of your boxers. Dash breaks the kiss and bites her lower lip hungrily, looking down as she slowly slides your boxers down your legs, revealing your throbbing manhood. You step out of your jeans and boxers, kicking off your shoes as you do so. Suddenly, your body tenses as Dash works her hand slowly up and down your length. Miniature electric shocks shoot through your lower abdomen, and the sight of your cock in the hands of this woman only makes you more aroused. Looking into your eyes, Dash lowers herself until your manhood is directly in front of her face. Then, without breaking eye contact, she tenderly works her lips over the head. She moves her head back and forth, her tongue prodding further down the length. Finally, she slowly takes the whole length into her mouth, not even gagging as your manhood slides down her throat. She brings her head back, and repeats the process.

To call the feeling "ecstasy" would be an understatement. What you are feeling is a hundred tiny little deaths as your mind goes blank but for the sheer pleasure of the work of Dash's mouth. You can feel your climax approaching already; your body is not used to any sort of sexual stimulation besides what your right hand can provide. "Dash," you say through gritted teeth. "You might want to stop, I'm gonna... Agh..." Instead of stopping, Dash's mouth moves faster and more fluidly around your cock, her hand now stroking the base. You can do nothing but try to maintain your balance as your orgasm hits. Your hips thrust forward, and Dash moans as rope after rope of your hot, sticky cum is shot into her mouth. She doesn't miss a drop, swallowing it all.

The feeling subsides after a moment, and you pull your cock from Dash's mouth and slump against the bar-stool, breathing heavily, eyes half-closed.

"Aww," Dash says. "I hope you're not done already."

Your open your eyes to find Dash sitting on the adjacent stool, shorts off, rainbow panties hanging off of her finger. Her legs are spread, her shaven, glistening sex yawning wide open. She drops her panties, and begins rubbing circles around her cunt, biting her lip and looking at your through heavily lidded eyes. She gasps as she brushes her fingers over her swollen clitoris, before sliding her index and middle fingers inside of herself, moaning loudly as she moves her fingers in and out in rapid succession. Your limp manhood begins to become erect once more, and your desire to fuck Dash returns, multiplied exponentially. Dash continues to look at you as she fingers herself, back arched, pussy flaring around her fingers. Finally, you can't hold back anymore. You stand, while reaching forward to rub Dash's clit with your right hand. The new stimulation causes her to gasp sharply and close her eyes, and quicken her pace in fingering her cunt. "Oh God," she says. "I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum... I'm cumming... I'm cumming!"

Dash's back arches and her hips gyrate against the stool, as her soaking wet pussy clenches against her fingers, while you continue to rub her clitoris. A single, soft scream comes from her open mouth as Dash rides the waves of her orgasm. Finally, she slumps backwards, her head coming to rest on the bar-stool behind her. She lays there for several moments, eyes closed. You worry that she may have fallen asleep.

"Aww," you say. "I hope you're not done already."

Dash smiles, eyes still closed. "Of course not," she says, softly. That orgasm must have hit her hard.

She sits up, eyes open now.

"Get on the counter," you say. Dash complies, a sly grin on her face. She climbs onto the bar countertop, her knees resting on the stools, propping herself up with her elbows on the wood. Her ass is a sight to behold, spread just wide enough to expose her dripping sex, parallel to your waist.

You take in the sight of Dash's body, legs spread in perfect submission, before she looks over her shoulder and says, "Hurry up and fuck me already."

Not one to keep a girl waiting, you step forward and grab Dash's ass with your left hand, while guiding your cock to her slit with your left. You rub the tip against Dash's slit, poking and prodding the opening, eliciting an excited moan from Dash. Finally, after your teasing causes Dash to pant in anticipation, you slowly push in. You moan lowly as you feel the inside of her cunt expand to accommodate your girth. You steady yourself, putting your right hand on Dash's waist, and proceed to thrust inward as deep as you could go. You feel Dash's entire body tense, her abdominal muscles taught beneath your right hand. "Yes," she says. "Faster." And so you comply, thrusting back and forth into her. Dash cries out in pleasure, her breasts bouncing back and forth as you pound into her pussy. Soon enough, her breathing becomes more erratic, and you realize that she's approaching her second orgasm. Feeling your own coming on, you hasten the rhythm of your thrusting to meet hers with yours. She begins pushing back, gyrating on your cock, her rhythm harmonizing with your own. You can feel your climax coming on, even stronger than before. Judging by the way Dash's pussy is pulsating around you, it's apparent that hers is too.

"I'm gonna... I'm gonna cum..." you say, for the second time that night.

Through her panting and moaning, Dash manages to get out a single word. "Inside," she gasps, before her panting becomes more pronounced, before it turns to screams of pleasure. She throws back her head and sings a shrill song of pure ecstasy, her orgasm hitting her with the force of an atomic bomb, causing her cunt to contract around your manhood, sending you over the edge. As per her instruction, you release your cum inside her, your brain bombarded with tidal waves of satisfaction. You ride the waves of your orgasms together, grinding onto one another, before it subsides and you stumble backwards, pulling out of her.

You sit on the floor, slowly falling backwards, your bare back assaulted by the cold tiles of the floor. Your eyes close for a moment, but you do not allow yourself to sleep. Instead, you force yourself to sit up. Dash is in the position you left her in, legs spread, cum still dripping from her quivering slit. Her head is resting on the countertop, and upon hearing her soft snoring, you realize that she is asleep.

Seeing her like this, so vulnerable, so exposed... Snapping out of your post-orgasmic afterglow, you realize what you've done. You've fallen in love with this girl, and then fucked her. She probably thinks of you as nothing more than another one-night stand, just as you'd said. You should have waited, you shouldn't have fucking thought with your dick... Now, you can't see any sort of future together with her. You doubt she'd ever want you back. You realize that you need to leave, now, before she wakes up. You can't stay here.

But you can't leave her like this, either.

You sigh, looking at the sleeping form in front of you. You quickly dress yourself, and approach Dash, wondering what the best way to do this would be. Finally, you decide to just carry her to her room. Supporting her legs with your right arm, you gently lift Dash off the countertop, and bridal-carry her toward the stairs visible on the far end of the living room. Careful with your footing, you carry her up the stairs, and through the door to the only room with the light on. Inside is a large room, with an unmade bed, and walls plastered with even more Wonderbolts posters, although in this case it's clear that no organization was attempted, although the love with which they were hung is apparent. You approach the bed, and observe for one last time the sleeping girl you're holding in your arms. Realizing that you'll probably never get the chance again, you plant one last kiss on her beautiful lips, before laying her down on the bed and covering her with the covers. She snuggles into the pillow, eyes still closed, still snoring softly, a slight smile on her face. You feel your heart break in your chest, and turn to leave, turning out the light as you go.

You walk through the house in a dream-state, taking in the two empty glasses on the bar, the posters on the walls of the living room, the heavy scent of sex... Sighing once more, you walk back through the entryway, unlock the door as quietly as possible, open it, and step out into the night once again, closing the door behind you. A tin can rolls past you on the sidewalk, clanking softly as it goes. Blinking back tears, you turn on the sidewalk and make your way back to your house.