Greasy

"You're lying," she spits without a moment's hesitation.
I stare at her with silent conviction, take one last sip of my drink and replace it on the side before walking out of the sunlit kitchen to retrieve my phone from the garden. She follows, tears evident in her tone as she asks fragmented questions to the back of my head. I maintain my silence as I step through the french doors of the conservatory, reach down to the blanket, pick up my iPhone and scroll through the inbox until I find his name and our incriminating exchange. I throw the handset into her unsteady palms and walk back into the house. I march up the stairs to my room, pull off the t-shirt I replaced when the sun went down last night, just before she did... I shake thoughts of her from my mind, angry that she's forgiven him, and knowing that I've ruined things between us forever. I spray my greasy maine with dry shampoo, throw on an old band t-shirt, grab my oyster card and run back down the stairs.
"Where are you going?" she looks at me incredulously from the bottom of the stairway.
"Out."
Tears have filled her chocolate-brown eyes, she licks her lips and bites at the inside of her cheek. My mind wanders uncontrollably once more to the happenings of last night: her warm mouth, agile tongue. She stands motionless as I take my phone back and head for the door.
"How could you?" her voice breaks, breath quickens and wheezes as long-awaited tears roll down her face.
I ignore her question, open the door and step outside. She grabs my hand, pulls me back toward her and without a word, presses her mouth to mine.