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."