It's time - part 1

For part 2 click here: Azotarme duro

It's one of those recurring dreams that you know beat-by-beat and every painstaking detail of it, but still, there is always something new, something that will throw you for a loop, make you pang at the end, and wake up, shaking and drenched in cold sweat.

    The first difference was that Nick was in it, sitting next to her, in a black tux, a crisp white shirt with a blue velvet bowtie, surprisingly still tied around his neck, more handsome than ever, if that was even humanly possible. One hand on the back of her neck, toying with the clasp of her pearl choker necklace and loose strands of hair. In his other hand he holds up another strawberry for her to bite on, the red juice dripping into his palm, high enough for her to comfortably lean to, far enough not to stain her white wedding dress. The venue of five hundred faceless guests buzzes in a blur. Nick looks at her and her only, like feeding her with these overripe strawberries that smell of summer is what he was put on this earth for.

    The faceless best man quiets the crowd and delivers his speech, punctuated by prompt eruptions of laughter. When he mentions for the third time that today Izzie got all her dreams come true, she clears her throat, straightens her already straight back, and gestures for a microphone.

    She gulps down her fear and speaks up, enunciating every syllable, "I dream of... I want to be whipped with a belt senseless," the crowd grows silent,  "through sobs and pleas, and then some." The strawberry rolls out of Nick's fingers and onto the white dress, leaving a bloody path behind. His eyes round into a silent 'no' full of terror that quickly changes into the one of a quiet fury. "And after that, rogered six ways to Sunday."

    The back of her brain registers a collective gasp and soaks up the utter humiliation. Blushing bride indeed, she feels the rush of blood to her cheeks, creeping up with red.

    The faceless best man picks up the mic that dropped on the table with a thud. The band picks up where it left with some ridiculously cheerful tune. The silence fills back with murmur.

    Nick's fingers, sticky from the strawberry juice, intertwine with hers. "Not sure which part you should dread more." He lifts her hand to kiss the knuckles. "Such a lovely blush, red suits you," his thumb brushes against her burning cheek. "So, you want your other cheeks in a matching colour?"

    "Look at me," his other hand, still grazing her nape, now firmly guides her to look up. This doesn't sound like Nick, this conversation that never happened has Aldous all over it. Like Aldous's words coming out of Nick's mouth.

    Nick rises on his feet, pulling her up with him. "It's time." It's time, echoes in her head, the time-honored code phrase that means only one thing, for those who know. It's time.

For part 2 click here: Azotarme duro