Blades

We lay in my back garden, slightly damp blades of green grass cooling our backs as the mid-July sun beats down on our stomachs. Ray Bans shielding our eyes to prevent crows feet, earphones in our ears connected to our iPods, large glasses of wine & lemonade at our sides, my summer feels as though it's going according to plan. I smile as my fingers twist blades of grass by my sides, pulling bunches out rhythmically yet out of time with the music resounding round my head at maximum volume. She hasn't cried for a few days and has been eating normally, yet I am aware that beneath her dark glasses lay empty eyes, bare of mascara and eyeliner and irritated from fierce rubbing every time tears threaten. She is quiet. Contented, I hope, but I doubt it. I wonder when the talkative, excitable Isobel will return but stop thinking before I, once again, feel guilty for my actions. I justify to myself once more whilst listening to the Kings Of Leon's 17, that if I hadn't taken such drastic measures, she'd be by his side this summer, not mine. And as I feel her smooth, clammy hand clasp mine and see her face stretch into a smile as I turn to her, I know that all of the pain and guilt have been worth it. 

Throws

"He keeps calling me," she reveals over breakfast - our second spent together this week. 
     "Have you been picking up?"
     "No, but he keeps sending me texts which of course I read, and I can't face Twitter - the last time I checked my account, he'd mentioned me in several posts..." her voice trails off as she bites into her toast; the corners of her mouth are glazed with strawberry jam.
I wipe them with the tips of my fingers and as the warmth of her breath escapes her mouth, imagine how the rest of her warm skin would feel beneath my milky fingertips.
She's still talking about him but I'm not even attempting to concentrate. I've heard his name a few times followed by the odd swear word. The thought of her body throws my mind back to that day at his. My heart beat quickens as images of him flash through my mind - his sculpted arms as they held his upper body over mine; the feel of his stomach hair as it brushed against my sticky skin; his closed eyes and warped facial expression in the final throws of our teenage lust. 
Her dainty fingers, with their gnawed nails where she'd bitten unthinkingly, hold a large mug of green tea. The steam rises from the depths of the cup, to her shiny skin. She's still speaking; I catch the last few words - "If I ever find out who she is, I'll kill her. And, as my friend, you will help."

Penetrating

Fierce sunlight pours through the window of my bedroom; my eyes open, the first thing they see are her dark curls. My arm wrapped around her waist, her body pressed to mine in the confines of my single bed, her mascara-stained face burrowed in her hands. I check the time on my phone: 13:04. I think of last night - we arrived at my house late evening, watched 'Glee', conscious that it had been too long since I last heard her sweet cackle of a laugh. Once that attempt failed miserably, I gave in to the inevitable, pushed The Notebook into the DVD player and sat beside her, tissues at the ready as we watched a love story unfold, both well aware that the scene in which James Garner breaks down, was just around the corner. I unfurl my left arm from underneath me and stroke her soft hair rhythmically yet softly enough not to wake her, before falling back to sleep beside her; my warm breath penetrating her bed-head barnet, strands flailing in the breeze. And we sleep the summer afternoon away, me dreaming of her, her of him.   

Penetrating

Fierce sunlight pours through the window of my bedroom; my eyes open, the first thing they see are her dark curls. My arm wrapped around her waist, her body pressed to mine in the confines of my single bed, her mascara-stained face burrowed in her hands. I check the time on my phone: 13:04. I think of last night - we arrived at my house late evening, watched 'Glee', conscious that it had been too long since I last heard her sweet cackle of a laugh. Once that attempt failed miserably, I gave in to the inevitable, pushed The Notebook into the DVD player and sat beside her, tissues at the ready as we watched a love story unfold, both well aware that the scene in which James Garner breaks down, was just around the corner. I unfurl my left arm from underneath me and stroke her soft hair rhythmically yet softly enough not to wake her, before falling back to sleep beside her; my warm breath penetrating her bed-head barnet, strands flailing in the breeze. And we sleep the summer afternoon away, me dreaming of her, her of him.   

Exertion

Her eyes maintain their focused intensity as we stand on the crowded platform, her back to me as she stares at the screen displaying train times: 'Morden 2mins' it reads. I wonder what she finds so fascinating. She is a woman posessed. She turns to me then, her bloodshot eyes puffy, cheeks flushed from a combination of emotional exertion and the heat emanating from the sweating passengers. 
     "How could he?" she asks rhetorically. 
I shrug my shoulders and cast my eyes downwards to stare at the grey floor. 
      "Why would he need to?" her voice trails off, "wasn't I enough?"
I examine her shiny, voluminous hair, full lips and pert breasts. Of course she was enough. "You're the best looking girl he'll ever have."
       "But who cares about looks..."
       "Okay, you're the best looking, kindest, most fun person he'll ever have." 
She processes this information for a moment before leaning over to me, flinging her thin arms around my neck, holding me in an embrace and whispering, "I sometimes wish you were a man."
Her body is racked with tears once more, and I hold her in my arms until three trains have gone past and her sobbing finally subsides.

Heave

I tap my oyster on the reader and walk through the grey barriers. My hands busy themselves, putting my oyster card in my bag and retrieving my iPod. Eyes look up briefly from the small LED  display to board the escalator and find her green dress-clad silhouette several steps ahead. Her head downcast and gently moving as her simultaneous deep inhalation and attempts to stop crying make her lungs heave and stutter. My own heart begins to beat at a faster pace, without a steady rhythm, as my mind slowly comprehends the consequence of my actions. I feel his strong hands once more, pulling my dress over my head, fingers fumbling with my knickers, the unexpected forceful nature of his actions... his caring eyes. The sound of her breathless sobbing. My throat feels as though it's swelling up as tears sting my eyes. I blink fiercely and breathe in the warm air of the underground. She steps off the escalator and I begin to walk down the few steps left before the bottom. I push past suit-clad commuters and relaxed tourists until I catch up to her and tap her on the shoulder; which is when I realise that her eyes aren't particularly sad - they are bright with fresh hatred and plans of revenge.         

Wait

I stand in silence, ear pressed to the door as their footsteps ascend the staircase. They speak inaudibly, she chuckles, his bedroom door slams. The rest of the house joins in my silence. I know I should leave while I have the chance; instead, I sit on the toilet seat and wait. She releases another child-like squeal as the sound of her feather-light body being thrown on his rumpled sheets reverberates through the floor. The thick walls mask the sound of their deep breaths, but my imagination still conjures the sounds and images in my mind. I twist both taps until the water splutters incontrollably from the faucets, smashing against the enamel sink and swirling down the plughole. I concentrate on the sound of running water to drown out all thoughts of them; of her perspiring skin in his hands, the hands that were, only twenty minutes ago, clutching at my hips. I begin to think of his touch once more, his eyes as they bore into mine. 
    "What the hell, Mark?! Whose are they?" her shouting penetrates my thoughts, voice cracks as she fails to stifle her tears.
I fight the urge to run into the room and embrace her until her sobbing subsides. Once again I wait. I wait until she throws on her clothes and flees the house, which, it turns out is not the best idea. He bangs on the bathroom door, shouting profanities, demanding a justification for me leaving my knickers for her to find. Unable to ignore the incessant pounding any longer, and estimating that Isobel would be well on her way by now, I brave his rage. Facing him, I contemplate being blunt, allowing him knowledge of my manipulative strategies. Instead I place my palm on his stubbly cheek and tell him, "I was in a rush, I didn't realise," before pressing my lips to his one last time and assuring him: "don't worry, she'll never find out that you slept with her best friend."  

Presses

We lay under the covers, his tan arms wrapped around my pale figure, mouths unmoving, minds seemingly at peace. My eyes wander around his bedroom, studying every crevice, as they hadn't the chance to see where anything but the bed was earlier. The floor is covered in empty CD cases, the discs themselves stand in a tall tower beside his iMac; notebooks are scattered around the room, some lay open, his scribbles on display appear to be a working progress. Our clothes are splayed across the wooden floor. My mouth creases into a smile as I recall how they all got there. His warm palm is stretched across the width of my torso; my minds eye returns to the morning I awoke in this same house to find his hand in the same position on her washboard stomach. I shake all thoughts of her from my mind until I hear an unfamiliar ring tone - his. He removes his hand from my skin, to search for the handset on the patch of floor beside the bed. 
    "Is?" he asks, bemused but gentle.
Throwing the phone back to the floor after a brief exchange, he places his soft lips on my ear, kisses the lobe and whispers, "Isobel's on her way," before practically leaping out of bed with me to get dressed for her. I follow his lead and am about to pull on my black silk knickers when my mind formulates a better idea. I pull my dress over my head, replace my converse on my feet and smooth my hair down with my palms. My foot touches the top step of the staircase, ready to descend, grab my bag and leave, when the door bell rings. 
   "Hide in the bathroom," he instructs before pulling me back into him and pressing his lips to mine.  

Understated

He opens the door to me with a wide, welcoming smile. Clad in a pair of loose stonewash levi's and a plain White t-shirt, his muscular arms are as naturally golden as his wavy hair. 
      "Come in," he beckons, reaching for my hand and pulling me gently into the hallway of this grand yet understated terraced house. 
Once inside, he takes my handbag and places it at the foot of the wooden stairase. He leads me through to the airy white kitchen, pours me a glass of coke to which I slyly add a slug of vodka in an attempt to give me that cool air of confidence that both he and Isobel exude effortlessly. Luckily he had already walked toward the French doors leading to the garden, so hadn't noticed my brazen hands stealing from his parents drinks cabinet. After replacing the bottle, I join him in what I discover to be a palacial garden if such a thing exists. He lounges across a large wicker sofa and gestures for me to join him. I smile and walk toward him, place my glass on the wooden coffee table, then perch on the edge of the wide seat; he wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me closer but I'm knocked off balance and rather than just sitting closer to him as I assume was intended, my top half falls clumsily sideways and I land atop his muscular chest. He smiles, amused, and brushes a stray lock of hair from my face with the soft tip of his index finger. Our faces centimetres from one another, his sweet breath warms my face, yet he seems unphased by our sudden closeness. He stares deep into my eyes until I look away, exhale a relaxing breath and lay my head on his chest. Silently, he kisses the top of my head. A smile crosses my lips and we lay perfectly still in utter contentment until he suggests we go upstairs...

Sick

On the bus on the way to his house, I apply mascara with an unsteady hand. After several outfit changes, I settled on a floral dress paired with my battered grey converse. The pungent 'apricot' scent of fake tan wafts around the perspiring bus, but gives my usually pasty legs a glow and subtle shimmer, making them appear far less chunky than usual. Overall, I'm pleased with my appearance, not that it's myself i'm trying so desperately to impress. Eyelashes sufficiently lengthened, I stow my make up away in my bag and check my phone for messages. One from isobel, asking what I'm doing today. I managed to shrug off yesterday's question by telling her she must have left her phone unlocked and swore I knew nothing about the text. Today I tell her i'm visiting a sick relative. It seems to be becoming apparent that it's me that's sick.  

Lie

Dawn breaks at six AM through my curtain-less window. I rub the sleep from my eyes and immediately my mind jumps to him. We had been texting incessently since late morning yesterday and I couldn't recall saying goodnight - I must have fallen asleep mid-conversation. I immediately reach for my phone to find it, callously strewn in the middle of my bedroom floor. 'Two new messages', it reads. 
   "I'd like to do that with you, too" says the first; the second assumes correctly that I had fallen asleep and is ended with three kisses. 
I smile involuntarily and am about to send my apology when I note the time - 06:07 AM - so decide against it. Instead, I roll over so that I am lying facing the wall and scroll through the many messages exchanged between us yesterday. I stop for a moment to consider my feelings - I'm not supposed to like him, I remind myself. I'm doing this to get closer to her. Thinking of her once more, my head spins as I picture her golden skin, taut thighs and soft touch. I am reassured in the knowledge that the first phase of my plan has gone wihout a hitch. My phone vibrates in my hand; Isobel. 
   "Why did you text Mark's number to your phone?"
And I remember the night before last on the train. I meant to delete the message from her sentbox, but we were underground so the message was pending, and hadn't yet appeared in her sent items; then we were at our stop so I hadn't any time to think before waking her and getting off the train. Obstacle one in my plan. Solution - lie through my teeth, or phone to be more specific.     

Cost

Riding the bus home, my eyes wander through the city streets; the old buildings and sparkling department stores with their imaginative window displays. The bus slows and my eyes land on a man and woman walking within the crowds of tourists and redundant teenagers basking in the sunshine of this particularly bright Saturday morning. He stands a few inches taller than her, and her eyes look up at him adoringly, both of their faces crease into joyous grins as they laugh at something he said. My heart sinks as I realise that that is what I want - I want to feel the warmth of another person's skin on mine, for somebody to look at me longingly, to make me giggle the way Isobel does when he whispers in her ear. And I'll make sure I get it, at whatever cost. I feel a vibration against my lap, dig in my bag and find my phone. 'One new message'. Him.   

Shelter

Walking along the river on the South Bank alone, hair blowing in the wind, hand clutching my phone, my mind wanders around recent events. Inevitably, her face enters my mind once more; her sultry eyes; the carefree movement of her limbs as she walks, skips and dances; that smile and how it contorts her face to join in its brightness. He enters my mind - as beautiful as her, his strong jaw, uncertain smile and those soft brown eyes which could only rightfully belong to a poetic soul. My mind struggles with its conflict of interests: him and her. I open the message containing his phone number once more, eyes squint in the early-morning sun as it bounces off the steel-blue water, across the modern glass buildings of the South Bank. I shelter from it in the shade of Tower Bridge and peer at the intimidating eleven digits.
I copy them and begin a 'new message'; "Mark, it's Anna. How are you?"
A slow step, I know, but necessary, I conclude. Hopefully, he won't simply reply, "good. u?" He didn't seem the type to use phonetic spelling, but everybody has to have at least one flaw. I continue walking alongside the Thames and wait for his response.

Alight

My tired eyes gaze at our reflection in the window of the underground carriage as it glides through the darkened tunnels. She lays her head on my shoulder and I watch as her eyelids grow heavy and slowly close. Her light breathing becomes rhythmic as she drifts to sleep; my eyes are averted for a moment from our image in the rain-dappled window, to search the cavernous carriage of the last train. My attention is drawn to the only other passenger - a drunk, slumped over himself, simultaneously dribbling and muttering incoherently. Her phone lies -periously close to falling - in her limp hand. I reach over to it, knowing that this time she was in a far deeper sleep than she was during my last attempt. My fast fingers scour her contact list until they land upon his name; I text his number to my phone and swiftly replace the handset where I found it before nudging her awake to alight the train.

Pierce

Her usually-olive cheeks blush pink as he whispers indecipherable sweet nothings in her ear. Her smile is so genuine, so happy as he continues whispering, mouth buried in her wavy hair, his eyes look up and find me. I fight my natural reaction of avoiding eye contact out of self-consciousness, and embrace his glare. He doesn't look away, and a small smile tickles my lips, turning the corners of my mouth upwards, but I try to control it in an attempt to maintain my sultry-seductress vibe. She giggles then and looks up to find me staring.
"Stop perving, Jas - go and find your own boyfriend, 'cause you're not having mine!" she squeezes his hand tightly then, and they fall into an embrace.
I turn away, but am still able to hear them, the sound of their pouting lips meeting, his hushed tones and her besotted giggle once more. My eyes focus on my own feet, clad in my trademark 'lesbian boot' Doc Martins, scuffed morosely at the toe. Kissing sounds pierce my ears. My eyes squint harder as they study the grey paving stones beneath me. I lift my right foot with the intention to walk further down the street, away from their love-fest, until I hear his deadpan voice speak loudly enough for me to hear, "you should ask your friend to join us. She's pretty hot for a dyke."

Timid

I smile shyly at him across the counter of the cafe where he works. He greets me warmly, recognises me as "Isobel's friend" and takes my order quite nonchalantly. I stare at him longingly and smile over-enthusiastically, but he doesn't seem to notice, just smiles that dumb, good-looking-guy smile and walks away. Ironically, Isobel would know just what to do in this situation. I twirl my frizzy hair around my right index finger, and cringe as I spot myself in the mirror behind his head, from that distance he's unable to see my chipped purple nail varnish, but he'd be able to decipher my stupid-but-sultry expression a mile off. I stop with the twirling. He walks over to my table, glass of coke in hand. Last chance to be sexy... I lean over the table and squeeze my shoulders together in order to push my breasts inwards, creating an undeniably huge cleavage. His eyes are averted for a moment from the task at hand. Consequently, as he places the over-filled glass of coke on the table, his hand is surprisingly unstable; the three ice cubes bob atop the brown liquid, and half of the drink is spilled perilously close to my ivory chest. I smile reassuringly in response to his flushed cheeks as he wipes the coke from the table.
"Oh God, I'm so sorry..." he stumbles over his words, "I was a little distracted."
He shakes his head apologetically, as if trying to banish images of me from his timid mind. It worked.

Corpse

The sound of her laugh is excruciating. Her dark eyes gather beautiful lines on their outermost corners as her face creases with the force of her large smile. Sitting beside one another on her bed, watching an episode of Friends we must have seen respectively about forty times before; I smile, not at the show, but at her child-like amusement.
"Hold my feet?" she asks, "They're freezing!"
So I do, and we sit in comfortable silence, smiling intermittently at the television, until her eyelids grow heavy, and gently close; and I am left alone with Joey Tribbiani, her graceful corpse-like figure, and her mobile phone. I reach over carefully to lift it from her lap, and feel the warmth of her skin through the light cover. Her chest rises and falls rhythmically, silent breath filters out of her full lips, eyes remain closed. As I lift the handset with my right hand, my left rises to balance the phone, but as it does so, my fingernails graze the sole of her foot and her lips morph into a smile, those lines appear again at the corner of her eyes.
"Don't tickle me!" she kicks the uppermost part of my inner thigh, and is suddenly awake again.
She grabs her phone, and checks for messages. Plan B shall have to wait another day.

Morning

The hairs on my legs prick up as I stand at the bus stop, sheltering from the constant onslaught of icy rain. My throat scratches, eyes sting vengefully at having to be open so early in the morning. I had only managed to catch a few hours sleep, my mind over-active with ideas for sabotage. I must have fallen asleep mid-plan, as I awoke, face lying on my keyboard, his facebook page on the screen. An idea enters my mind then, on remembering his model good-looks and sheepish yet charming demeanour. If I were successful and she found out, she'd never speak to him again. A devilish smile crosses my lips, eyes brighten as my bus comes into view. Today looks promising.

Elation

Sitting in her living room, my eyes flutter thoughtlessly through the pages of one of the many glossy magazines dotted around the house. She paints her toe nails, brow furrowed in concentration ensuring each little piggy is as perfectly polished as the last. Without looking up, she muses, "he's been really off with me lately. I text him a couple times today with no response - he usually replies straight away..."
I look up briefly to check whether her eyes have risen from her perilous task, and lower mine once again when I realise they haven't. Of course it's my fault that he's been 'off' with her, but she can't be too bothered.
"I might try calling him later," her forehead creases into slight frustration as a spot of the red varnish lands on her toe rather than the nail.
"Don't do that!" She looks up now, bemused. I continue, "well, if he's playing hard-to-get, you don't want to be too easy."
"I suppose you're right," she agrees, screwing the top back onto the half-empty nail varnish bottle, "he'll need me before I need him."
"Exactly," I smile and nod my head slightly. If I could keep this up perhaps I'd never have to think of them together again.
Her phone flashes and this time she notices, picks it up and grins elatedly. Time for plan B - whatever that is.

Yes

My eyes glaze over as I stare blankly into the computer screen. I've been here for an hour now, the new word document I started this morning still only contains the vague title of the assigned essay. She sits beside me, biting her nails and swaying in her swivel chair. My eyes break away from the moniter for a brief moment to rest on her petite toes as they breathe freely in her new sandals. She doesn't notice her phone flashing, so I pick it up. One new message; him. I read the text, her eyes are still fixed on the ceiling, counting the multiple spot lights.
'I can still smell you on my sheets. Come round later?' reads the succint message.
My thumb dances around the keyboard as I deliberate showing her the message... It navigates the options menu until 'delete' is stumbled upon.
'Delete message?'
'Yes,' I nudge the handset across the table to her, she smiles ignorantly.

Touch

"He wrote a poem on my arm," she says, smiling, then stretches her inked arm to my face for me to inspect.
I squint, trying to decipher the smudged script, "was this before or after he raped you?"
"After, i think. And, he did not -"
"You were practically unconscious."
Sitting on the northern line on our way home with dark circles under our eyes and the thick stench of cigarette smoke embedded in our clothes, the early morning commuters would have looked upon us in distaste had their noses not been buried in free newspapers. She had neatened her eye make-up before we left his house, so although we'd only managed to snatch a few hours sleep, her eyes manage to shine in the harsh strip-lighting of the underground. Stale taste in my mouth, throat dry and eyelids heavy, I squeeze them shut and scratch my head, in a vain attempt to liven up before my Politics class. She grabs my hand as our carriage pulls into Angel station, and my mind imagines the pair of them in his dirty sheets. Perspiring skin, his lips on hers, her silk-smooth palms touching him. I release her palm from mine, imagining the feel of his skin in it rather than mine. Her dress blows up in the familiar yet unexpected gust of air from the opposite platform, she shrieks, face creases into that beautiful smile. And I laugh along, forgetting his possessive hands and masculine strength as we board the escalator together, her bright eyes studying me as intently as mine watch her.

Fatigue

Rubbing my eyes in fatigue at the hands of an alcohol-fueled all-nighter, my mind drifts back to her once more. She lays beside me now, on the cold wood floor of his house. Images of them dance around my mind. I shake them away to think of only her, her slender frame as she danced to her own rhythm, ignorant of the blaring music. The scent of her flowing hair as it became infused with the pungent smell of cannabis and tobacco. The matt-silk feel of it as I held it for her whilst she heaved into the toilet bowl. Eyes open slightly wider now, I admire her angelic complexion and panda eyes. I ignore his haughty, beautiful frame as he lays beside her, long arms entwined around her small waist, fingers resting on her toned torso where her dress has ridden up overnight. Nobody else has woken, so I ignore my dry throat and lay down again, as close to her face as I can be without waking her. I brush a lock of brunette hair from where it has fallen across her forehead, and breathe in the scent of her sweet skin, almost indistinguishable from the infusions of sweat, drugs and beer. And I wait for her to stir and find me here, waiting for her.

Want

Sitting in front of the floor-length mirror in my bedroom, applying a coat of lipgloss, my eyes should, ideally, be focused on my own face. Instead, they follow her. She stands behind me, examining her five-foot-nine, perfect size ten figure clad in nonchalantly uncoordinated underwear. She spins on the balls of her feet, turning herself to reach the dress she spilled her glass of coke down earlier. Of course she knows I'm still looking when she replaces the floral tea dress with the brown stain on the chest, but she loves an audience - whoever it may comprise of. She leaves the buttons undone so that her small, pert breasts peek out from the thin layer of material. Smiling at me in the mirror, she bends down and states, "I need lipgloss," before pulling my face round to hers and brushing her pale pink mouth against mine.

"Now, stop staring at my tits and get ready - I wanna go out."

I stood up beside her then, ignoring the beginning of her sentence. At an average five-six, with my buxom chest and unruly maine of dirty-blonde hair, I pale in comparison to her. She always looks sexy. Effortlessly so - with her olive skin, dark hair, eyes darker still, she barely ever wore make-up yet maintained the title of 'best looking girl' wherever we went.

"C'mon then, slut," I smiled, grabbing her soft hand. God, I need a boyfriend.