And it’s nothing like kissing a boy. Her breath is hot and tastes sweet, mixed with a splash of icy alcohol. I can still taste the salty tears drying on her flawlessly soft lips. Tears she wept for him. For a second I can’t move. I’m stunned. And so scared. And then her lips move slowly, her tongue almost touches my bottom lip. And I get braver.
I begin to kiss her.
My eyes are closed.
But I know hers are wide open. I can feel her gaze on my skin. Her teeth on my lips. Mind-blowingly gentle, making goose-bumps cover my body.
My hands hover on either side of her face, my fingertips almost scraping along her cheekbones. I wish that she’d close her eyes. And I wish I was brave enough to touch her skin, just like I wish I was brave enough to kiss her properly, kiss her like I love her.
But now she’s tearing her lips away from mine. My eyes are flickering open. Focusing on her perfect eyes that are quickly filling with tears once again. Tears mixed with something like fear, horribly dilating her pupils. So big I’m scared she’s tripping. So big I’m scared she doesn’t recognise me anymore.
“I’m sorry-” she whispers. She’s apologising and I can still taste her lips. I can still feel her breath. Her body is so close I can feel her heartbeat. Racing, forcing her blood through her body.
“Cheryl?” I breathe in reply. I watch as she touches her tongue to her lips, as though she’s savouring the taste of my kisses. She swallows, her eyes blurred, unreadable. Her oily pupils bleed into her chocolate irises. I wish I was brave enough to kiss her again. But I know I’m not. “Cheryl?” I repeat her name. I try not to let my breath catch at the back of my throat. And when she closes her eyes it’s as though all the lights in the world have suddenly been blotted out. Through the darkness, I can see a final tear leaking from the corners of each of her eyes.
“M’asleep” she murmurs. Her accent is slurred. Is it the alcohol or the sleep blurring her brain? I can feel her breathing. I can feel her heart beating. Even when she’s slipping away into sleep, she’s so alive.
“What?” I breathe, frowning. I wish she’d open her eyes, I wish she’d look at me. I don’t want her to sleep. I wonder if she hates me. I wonder if I’ve done something wrong.
“M’going to sleep” she murmurs once again. Under the covers, she runs the very tips of her fingers along my arms, up to my shoulders. I shiver, and she lays the palms of her hands on my skin. Her hands are so cold.
I wait until I’m sure she’s asleep. I wait until her breathing is deep. I brush a single strand of her glossy dark hair away from her face, laying it across the white pillow instead, so her hair frames her face like the midnight black halo of a fallen, falling, angel.
A car pulls into the garages far below us, its headlights cutting though the night and slipping through the grimy window, covering her skin in pale light. Her skin looks grey and her lips look scarily pale, a huge contrast to her clouds of dark hair. Carefully, I touch my fingers to my lips, kissing them gently, and then brush them against the impossibly white skin of her neck, and I find a pulse. Her heartbeat breaking against my skin.
My head feels heavy. I close my eyes, and for a brief moment I still see her sleeping face as clear as though it’s been burned into my eyelids. And with that image, I slim seamlessly into sleep.
***
My bed is cold. Too cold. Even before I open my eyes I can feel my breath smoking from my lips, almost condensing in the freezing air. And the second I blink my eyes open, I know she’s gone. I can no longer feel her skin that felt like crushed velvet and smelt of cigarette smoke mixed with cold tears. Her feet aren’t tangled in my own, her limbs aren’t stretched across my skin and her hair isn’t tickling my face. I blink. No doubt about it, she’s gone. My bedroom is deserted. The grey early morning sunlight that creeps through my window fills the space on the sheets beside me with glaring light, jarring through my head. I roll over, clutching the sheets to my body as I look desperately around the room, hoping for a note, a message, anything. Nothing. For a second I wonder if she ever was here, if the last few hours had been a wildly vivid dream. Nothing is out of place. She came and went like waves on a beach, leaving no trace. I blink around my room again. The vest I leant her, carefully folded at the foot of my bed. The door slightly ajar, light from the hallway creeping in. The imprint of her head still on the pillows. And the sheets still smell of her smoky skin. Driftwood. The waves, the tides, the seasons even, they can all come and go, but they always leave driftwood. Tiny little imprints. I breathe, and I get out of bed, listening carefully.
Has she gone back next door? I’m not sure. I can’t hear anything. I can’t hear her clattering around the flat, packing her things. I can’t hear his shouts or the way her breath gets tangled in her throat as she suppresses tears. I wonder if she’s really there, just a thin ply-board wall separating us. I pull on a hoodie, pulling my hair over one shoulder and rubbing my eyes. I think about calling her, knocking on the flimsy wall, or going to the front door and asking if she’s there.
No. No. That’s a stupid idea. She’ll call me if she wants to. She’s got my number. She could just send me a text. I lean over and pick my phone up, checking my texts. No new messages. I pick up my carefully folded vest and put it back in my draws. I move mechanically, jerkily. Tense. On edge. I try not to think, because I don’t want to remember what happened last night. I don’t want to remember how it felt to kiss her, how right it felt to have her body curled beside my own. ”It was a mistake” I tell myself over and over, desperately trying to convince myself. ”A stupid mistake, she was sad, we were a bit drunk...” Not drunk enough though, not nearly drunk enough...
Suddenly my phone vibrates violently. I lunge to pick it up, not even looking at the screen before I accept the call.
“Hi?” I murmur, my heart leaping, already imagining Cheryl’s husky Geordie accent on the other end of the line.
“Kimberley? Why weren’t you picking up your phone last night, I called four times-” It’s my mam. She sounds worried. I run my hand through my hair as I flop back down onto my bed, leaning against the wall.
“I was out” I can’t be bothered to lie. I don’t care anymore, I might as well tell her the truth. What can she do right now anyway, she’s several hundred miles away and she won’t get home for hours.
“Where?” Her reply is instant.
“Jarrow. Have you been to Jarrow, it’s really posh-”
“Who were you with?” I can hear the sharpness in her voice. Pricking at my skin. Pricking at the corners of my eyes.
“Just some...some friends from school.” I’m not going to tell her about Cheryl. How could I? I could never begin to explain my mam about the way Cheryl looks as when she cries. I could never tell her how-
Three knocks on the front door. Soft. Cautious. And I already know who it is, of cause I do. I knew who it was from the very first knock. And suddenly I can’t breathe anymore. “Someone’s at the door mam, I’ll see you later, yeah?” I say hurriedly, my fingers already hovering over the disconnect button. My hand shakes. And I know I’m addicted. Wildly, madly addicted to her. And I need a fix.
“Yeah, fine. Be good, and make sure there’s some food in for when me and Amy get back-” She’s still talking, her voice resigned. In the background I can hear Amy clattering around, and the radio is on. Little normal things, reminding me that the world still goes on, even when my world now revolves around a whole different orbit. The girl waiting outside the front door.
“Yes, cool, see you tonight-” I hang up quickly. And I slip through the gap in the door. And run through the corridor, my eyes quickly adjusting to the sudden darkness. The kitchen is an unexpected pool of light, the laminate floor is an unexpected chill, running though my body. I wrench open the front door. And even though I’m expecting her, she still takes my breath away.
Lounging against the concrete. Hair tied up in a high ponytail, sending endless dark curls cascading down her back. She’s wearing a leather jacket and a huge t-shirt that’s far too big for her, folds hanging from her thin body. I think it belongs to him. That means she’s been back there, in those tiny rooms next door. I want to know what she said to him. I have to know what she said to him, the exact words that came from those heavenly lips I kissed last night. I need to know her exact tone of voice, her precise pronunciation. I want to know it all. But did she even say anything? Or did she just crawl into bed next to him? Is she angry with him? And will she leave him or is she just going back to him again?
I don’t want her to have to sleep next to him, because I want her to sleep next to me. All night, every night, and not have to sneak away in the morning. Just heavenly soft skin, bruised like a peach, and star-strewn eyes, reflecting her world back to me.
“Come on-” Cheryl’s holding out her hand to me. I blink at her, and suddenly I can’t move. A mucle clenches in my jaw. My heart races, beating far too fast. “You do want to come, don’t you?” she murmurs, slightly less confidently now. Her hand shuddering slightly. Her fingers clench and then uncurl. Bruised. Fading, but still bruised.
“Yes-” I whisper. But I don’t reach out to touch her. I don’t dare.
And when our eyes meet, I can only read fear. And it clings to the edges of her pupils, weighing them down so she can’t even look at me. I feel as though I’ve been kicked in the ribs.
“Do you hate me?” she breathes.
