"Why couldn't you get me a hotter maid?"

"No!"

"Why?!"

"Because."

"Because what?"

"Because I don't want a hot maid around you that can twiddle herself in front of you while I'm not here."

He sat next to me and gave me a hug and kissed my head. "I know of how little your faith in men is. But believe me when I tell you that even if we got a maid you thought was hot, I'd fire her immediately if she came on to me."

She still pouted and remained unconvinced. He held her tighter and kissed her on the lips.

"I'm perfectly okay with our transvestite maid."

And that made her smile.

She was quietly sleeping upstairs when he started writing. It was only supposed to be one note, a couple of lines max but he found himself just going on and on until he had an entire page.

It still felt like it was lackadaisical; incomplete in is expression of how he truly felt for this woman. "Maybe next time, in another letter" He whispered to himself. He peeked up the stairs to check if she was coming down anytime soon. Safe for the moment, he then slipped the note in her phone case but not before giving it a kiss.

He knows she'll find it well enough. And with that, he smiled.

They've been talking the entire day. It still amazes her how they both can stay on track with the topic of discussion even if they change topics in a breath. One moment, they were discussing about how to generate more income through marketing a product in a very unusual manner and then they'd immediately change it to something as mundane as the nutritional content of junk food.

"Seriously, they should be putting the nutritional information hidden in a big flap on the packets of these motherfuckers. You read it and realize that it's 60% of the daily recommended allowance for fat! What are these fuckers made of? Pure fat flakes?!" He says while munching on a couple of more chips from the bag he so previously proclaimed as evil.

"Why do you keep eating it then?" She asked while she was multi tasking - phone perched between her shoulder and ear while she's typing away on her laptop, trying to figure out the proper grammatical structure of her sentence.

"Because it's oh so good..."

"Then stop bitching about it if you keep on eating it, jackass." She chuckles as she put a period on her sentence, satisfied that she did it right.

"So, what time are you coming over?" He mumbles through his chewing.

"When I'm done with this."

"You work too hard" He grumbles.

"Nope, not enough. Talk to you later." She smiles as she hangs up the phone.

They've been trying to get their acts together and lives straight. Starting new when everything's broken is such a feat but they figured as long as they were together, they'd be okay. Her phone beeps and she takes her eyes away from the computer screen to check the message. It was from him.

"And hey, I just wanted you to see this." It was a picture message of their bare living room (they can't afford furniture just yet) with brand new curtains. The curtains she wanted. She smiled and sent a message back.

"I love you too."

She sits across me and I could almost swear that she's holding her breath - keeping it caught between her throat and her heart.

I find it hard to concentrate, my eyes transfixed on her - her lips that she keeps biting, her eyes that are bright and fixed at a distance, her finger that play at the section of her long wavy locks. She looks at me and I panic and pretend to be busy with the papers I was holding. She smiles and lets out a small giggle.

"Sorry, I tend to get lost in my thoughts sometimes. Not that they're interesting, most of the time they're just random things that I try to find logic on."

She's captured me. In that moment, she's not just beautiful. She's articulate, intelligent and gracious; the perfect ingenue. She reaches for my hand and taps my fingers. "Tell me about you. What do you dream of ? What do you wish for?"

"Mm...e?" I mentally slap myself for sounding like a moron. She indulges me with a smile and almost immediately, the world seemed warmer, brighter and less cruel. I blush at her soft scrutiny. "I don't know...: I shrug "Dreams seem to be a futile effort and a waste of time."

She pouts a little and I think a puppy just died. "That's a rather sad way to look at dreams."

"It's not that...it's just that...most dreams are left as that - Dreams. Unfulfilled dreams ferment into resentment and in turn, becomes bitterness."

She props her chin on her palm and looks straight at me. "That's one way of looking at it. Another way is that, yet to be fulfilled dreams give us hope; hope to believe that there's still a chance for them to come true. If we've lost hope then we're all doomed."

Even the way she says the word "doomed" was beautiful.

I looked straight at her and for a moment, I saw a glimmer of hope for me that she was offering openly. I smiled in spite of my fears and self-consciousness. "Doomed..."

He took one last look around the room, checking if there was anything else he has left behind. Satisfied that everything was where it was supposed to be - in bags or boxes and dust on surfaces - he turned around and headed downstairs.

Greeting him at the landing was the supreme definition and exhibition of "Compartmentalizing your life." Five boxes, one for every year he spent in this house. He put his hands on his waist and lightly shrugged.

He was more worried about whether all of the boxes would fit in the car than he was leaving all intangible things behind.

To him, there was nothing more exhilarating than a clean slate.

The hubris of their relationship was the conceit that they thought and truly believed that they were unique and special to each other even when they truly aren't.

She's the kind of girl he wouldn't date, much less talk to even under duress. She's too crude, too fast, too smart-assed and her edges are too sharp. But he wanted her. His desire for her was strong. Lust, want and fuck were all understatements. He wanted her - all of her. He wanted to fuck her in an earnest way, the kind where you see colors behind your eyes if you close them real hard enough.

They fuck in a way nobody has ever did before - desperate, like it would never happen again, like it isn't enough, like there isn't enough time. He kissed the knobs of her ankles like they were her fingertips - gentle and loving but he pounded into her like she was going to disappear and change her mind in a heartbeat. And in spite of the pulse of her still broken heart caused by him, she still wants this - wants him. And she's too drunk on that emotion and too overwhelmed to try to control it and reel it in.

When everything's over and the high of the orgasms come down, she looks at him - gazes, actually, with an illegible storminess written on her face and his resolve threatens to crumble like a house of cards in a breeze.

But some things don't change. Like the fact that she's still always the one being left behind and he's always the one walking out the door.

One day, she thinks, one day she'll wait for the roles to be reversed.

"So, how does this whole virtual relationship work?"

"We chat, email, send pictures, skype, you know..." She trailed off, somehow humiliated by something she found to be meaningful just a few minutes ago.

He chuckled at her embarrassment. "You're awesome. I mean, I actually have new found respect for you."

"Oh?" She raised her one eyebrow in skepticism.

"I think it's very brave of you to be putting yourself out there. I don't think I can do it. I don't want to be judged by my typing skills, you know? Like I'll be typing 'I want to suck your coke' then facepalming myself and hitting the delete button as fast as I can." He shrugs. "I just can't do it." He mock pouts.

She throws the nearest solid object at him. "Asshole."

(Yes, you've guessed it. This story is dedicated to Cez.)

***

"It's me, isn't it? Don't sugarcoat it, lay it on me. It's me." She plopped down on the chair in front of him, catching him off guard as he was taking a bite off a pastry. So much for a quiet breakfast, he thought.

He glared at her but she was too preoccupied to notice. So, he swallowed the pastry and gave an exasperated sigh. "Okay, I'll bite. What's you?"

She grabbed the pastry off his plate. Ladies and gentlemen, the queen of invasion. Her powers know no bounds! She invades everything - personal spaces, your thoughts and breakfast pastries. He smacked her hand but she held fast and strong to the baked dough. She took a huge bite and put it back on the plate.

"Eeeff me. Drrff no offur ees'n, ai?"

"In English, Cecilia." He threw a napkin at her. "And didn't you ever learn any manners in that Catholic school of yours?"

She shook her head and swallowed. "Nope. But I learned how to pray the rosary in Latin and how to smuggle cigarettes inside my bra."

He rolled his eyes and gave an amused smile. "Alright, now tell me what you're upset about." He took this opportunity to lay claim (or lay back his authority) on the pastry.

"I'm funny, full of personality, spunky and relatively attractive." She rattled on as she checked her reflection in the window.

"Don't forget modest..." He said under his breath.

"I heard that, jackass." She scowled.

"Sorry." He wasn't. Not really. "Go on, Princess" He said with a roll of his hand.

"Why the hell can't I get a date then, huh, Jason? Why?"

"Maybe they can smell the desperation off you and it's like an anti-pheromone. Like how those anti mosquito lotions work." He said calmly as he sipped his coffee.

"Why am I friends with you?" She said as she put up her feet on the low coffee table. He quickly batted her knees to make her put her feet down.

"Because nobody in their right mind would be friends with such a crude woman like you thereby validating my insanity. Besides, you provide for my daily entertainment if you're not trying to kill me with frustration."

"I can so feel the love, bitch." She pouted as she slouched into the chair.

He rolled his eyes. "Do you want me to tell you the usual Cosmo feel good response or do you want the truth?"

She cocked an eyebrow. "Dude, you read Cosmo?"

He blushed but fought to regain some semblance of dignity. "A lot of men read Cosmo, Cece. The articles are a lexicon of information on the female psyche. But I digress. Do you want my opinion or are you just going to regale me with your fits of woe and continue to mooch off my breakfast?"

She mock genuflected. "A thousand apologies, O esteemed one. Please continue in blessing me with your pearls of wisdom."

He leaned back into the couch in a dismissive and fake insulted manner. "If you're going to be such a sarcastic bitch about it, maybe I should just let you wallow in your misery."

She quickly jumped off her chair and planted herself right next to him, snuggling by his side. She pulled his arm and draped it 'round her shoulders. "C'mon Jay...you know you can't stop being opinionated and you can't stand seeing me in misery."

She could literally feel his eyes rolling. This was her victory. Their relationship is based on the little victories from either side but both were quite unsure what the war was all about or if there ever was a war to start with.

He pulled her closer to him and rested his cheek on top of her head. "You try too hard, Cecilia. You keep on diminishing yourself by measuring your worth in your date-ability. Any man would kill to have you. Who wouldn't want someone funny, witty, articulate, compassionate and beautiful to be theirs? If they can't see that then I pity them because they're missing out on the most precious of all treasures."

There was silence in the cafe - at least between them. There was that lingering feeling of epiphany and a heavy steady beating of hearts. She looked up to him with eyes wide. "Jay...?" She whispered. "You totally had that memorized, didn't you?"

He looked just as intense and whispered back. "Totally."

She was painting herself as a hedonistic selfish girl (not a woman but a girl) who ravages. She consumes, takes what she wants when she wants it. She gives nothing and takes it all.

Except for this one tiny moment tonight when she turned around and said "I like your smile when I know I put it there."

(The prompt was to write about some weird character habit that only makes sense to the character)

She's the queen of multitasking; getting two or three things done at one go. She lives in a perpetual state of urgency. She wants to be efficient in every aspect of her life. She would be on the phone setting up meetings while she's sending out emails. She pays her bills online via her mobile phone while she's standing in line at the supermarket to pay for her groceries. She's got the washing machine on spin cycle while dinner's cooking in the oven while she's still doing something else. Her friends would tease her that while she's having sex, she's brainstorming for her next client presentation. That's how she got her nickname: Bunny - a parody of Rabbit, as in both Alice in Wonderland and Winnie the Pooh.

It was that one time during her infrequent one night stands (She really doesn't like them as they would only let her do one thing) that her ultimate multi-tasking habit was revealed. She forgot to lock the bathroom door and he just barged in. He stood in bewilderment as he tried to fathom what he was seeing.

"What are you doing?" He asked, wording out the question slowly, as decently as possible as if he were approaching a wild animal.

"Multi-tasking." She said non-nonchalantly but she let him feel her irritation.

"Why would you multi-task that? Or those, for that matter?"

"It saves time and energy."

"Oh." He said and hesitated on whether he'd come in or leave her to it. He chose the latter. He was bewildered by what he saw but he patiently waited his turn at the bathroom. When she stepped out, she confronted him.

"You're judging me. Don't. I don't need to explain it to you. I don't need to explain myself to you."

"Of course, Of course." He was taken aback.

"It saves me time. That's all I have to say."

"It just doesn't make any sense."

"Not to you." She started fixing the bed as she began her litany. She knew she didn't need to, seeing as this was a motel, bit it's either that or she strangles him. "So I smoke while I'm brushing my teeth at the same time. You don't have to understand it and you sure as hell don't need to stay here."

At least he had the sense to feel ashamed. "I'm sorry..." He said as he dressed up and left.

As soon as he closed the door, she went through the usual range of emotions of hurt, anger, self-doubt and regret while she was on the phone calling the front desk to inform them that she's checking out. She brushed away the emotions as she was brushing her hair and putting on her shoes.

"Crap. I'm late..." She said as puts on her watch.

When you're given a taste of the forbidden fruit, you'll always want the entire tree. She's been given a taste, a morsel, a slice of the fruit and as expected, it created a desire so great in her that it overpowered her into a sense of false and displaced bravery.

He is her forbidden fruit, as she has inevitably and eventually become his.

She evaluates everything she does as possible moments for misbehaving. Calculating moments and spaces for stolen kisses and probably quickies, she has become an expert at risk investigations and management.

Now, although he's not about to deny the pleasure he gets from this (and the thrill and excitement too) he wants something else - something more. He wants to feast on her and not just this "snacking". It's like Chinese food, he thinks. You may have eaten a lauriat but after two hours, you're hungry again. He wants a long slow process. He wants to savor every moment, every breath, every sigh. He wants her to open up, spread out before him, tasting the secrets she hides. And he spends an unbelievable amount of time fantasizing about it. She's always there, in his fantasies. But now, when she's there, right against the wall with her legs around his waist, begging him to go deeper, commanding him to go faster, all those fantasies don't matter. Nothing matters but his name on her lips, his hands on her thighs and the tiny sounds she makes. Real sex will always be ten times better than the bullshit in his head and he'll take any kind of real sex over imagined ones.

When everything is done, she leaves with a smile and a pat on his cheek. Her kiss is a promise of a repeat performance in another location. He's left with a sliver of hope and the glory of her taste on her tongue.

They’d always meet somewhere out of each other’s way. Some back road B&B, some motel along some street in a town that civilization has forgotten, but always somewhere where they’re both just strangers. Anonymity was on the top of their list – that and a hundred more requisite items that they both deem essential to cross off.

They never blatantly say it. It seemed trifle to do so, like saying it would mean that it was really happening and they didn’t want that. The more they deny what it was, the more exciting it was for the both of them. Denial was something they did with such class and precision. It was more than a hobby for them. It was who they were.

Most of the time, it was just a waiting game. Each person would have a prescribed waiting period as to who would contact who first; waiting to see who would give in first, who’d crack first, who’s more screwed up in the head. The loser would be the one who made the first move. So far, she’s the Grand National champion. Not that he has ever made her feel that way. He’s always ecstatic when she calls and he makes her know it by the way he kisses her and talks to her and looks at her.

Sex is always polite – asking if one could, using “May I...” instead of “Can I...” as the ability to do an action wasn’t being questioned, it was more of seeking permission, an approval. They never talk, silent as ever - letting the slip slap of skin do the talking. Sighs and controlled moans replace words, as they talk too much when they’re not in the throes of physical intimacy. The sounds of sex was best spoken without words.

The sex? It was a bonus. The real prize for them was the conversation. The pleasure of being able to exchange words, ideas and thoughts; to be able to throw quips, puns and take it with such intelligence, class and sophistication; to be able to argue, disagree and compromise, that was the real motivation behind the meetings.

It was one night at the tail end of autumn that she asked. She was smoking her Marls, ashtray propped on her thigh as she was sitting up on the bed. “How long are we going to do this for? Don’t get me wrong – this isn’t a prelude to a sappy goodbye speech. I’m not asking for anything more either. It’s just that I’d like to have my expectations levelled and my options open.”

He sat up from his position beside her and faced her. “Options open? Are you...seeing someone else? Someone new?”

She chuckled as she blew out smoke and stubbed the cigarette on the ashtray “Aside from you, no.”

“Then I reiterate. Open options? Are you not...satisfied with this? With me?”

She held his face and kissed him deep. “Stop being such an insecure girl. This is to your own benefit than mine.”

He took her hands and pushed her away a little bit. “How is this to benefit me? And for the record, I’m not insecure...way to kill the afterglow.”

She took in a deep breath and rolled her eyes like it could make a sound. “Think about it, if we were to keep this up any longer, we’d find some sort of attachment with each other that wouldn’t be healthy.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Yes, because as opposed to this – this is perfectly fucking healthy.”

“Emphasis on the fucking.”

“Whatever. Go on...” he waved his hand in both an ebullient and dismissive manner.

She looked at him as if she were seeing him for the first time. “Why are you here?”

He actually looked perplexed. “What do you mean, why am I here? I think the reasons were perfectly clear a couple of minutes ago.” He ran an open palm across the disheveled state of the bed.

“Let me rephrase that. Why did you come the first time?”

He smirked. “Well, you did do that hip roll thing and I just couldn’t stop myself”

She slapped his arm a little harder than the usual playful physical abuse. “Focus, Damien.”

He rubbed his arm and winced. “I swear you actually have a sadistic side to you, Helena”

“Answer the question.”

He took about a few seconds to ponder on the question. She took this time to light another cigarette.

“I...honestly don’t know.” He breathed out, in sync with her exhale of the nicotine and tar filled white smoke.

“I figured as much...” She looked at him and smiled. She put the ashtray on the side table and stood up to take a shower, leaving him there still thinking.

But behind the closed bathroom door, as soon as the droplets of water hit her skin, she also let go of her tears.

She knew this was coming; she's seen it from a thousand miles away.

He touched her face as he said the words, as if he's trying to make the blow a little bearable.

"It's not that I'm incapable of loving. It's just that I can't love you. You're not the one. I'm sorry..."

He looked at her while she was reading the paper and having a sip of her coffee. He squinted at her, as if tunnel vision were to give him a better perspective.

"You hold too many secrets. You hide too many things." He said accusingly.

She never looked away from what she was reading and gently put her cup down. "That's why they're called secrets, dumbass."

He tries to hold her after; positioned his arm across the bed where he knows she'll lay. She predictably flops down and doesn't notice his arm. He smiles to himself at the success of the first step in his nefarious plan. He then eases his hand into position number two, trying to get her to roll over to him for him to hold.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" She asks as she sits up, clearly annoyed.

Curses! Foiled again! He thought to himself. "What? I was trying to get my arm out from under you!" Lying is supposed to be an art form - in his case, he's never gone past stick figures.

She stands up and gets her cigarettes from the night stand. "Dammit, Rob! Way to ruin my afterglow!" She lights one and throws her lighter down with such force to show how pissed off she was. He sits up on the bed, trying to match her annoyance.

"What's your deal with cuddling anyway?" He asks.

"I don't like it, okay? Didn't I make that clear when we started this? Three months, Rob - three fucking months and you still won't stop trying!" She blows out a stream of white smoke.

"I just want to understand, Camille"

She took another puff and chuckled as she exhaled. "Since when did you grow ovaries?"

He scowled as he threw the covers off him and grumbled as he tried to dress up. "You know what, Cam? Fuck you."

"You just did." She snapped back.

"At least I can say I've got feelings and actually care enough not to treat you like some random cheap floozy off the street. Clearly, you have issues and clearly, you don't want to deal with them. I just thought it was my obligation, as a human being with a heart, to care about my fellow man. I'm done with this." He started hunting for his errant sock as he finished his rant.

"You want an applause or an award for that speech?"

He cut his eyes at her and he's both parts frustrated and angry that she's so unaffected by it; by this. "How can you be so cold-hearted, Camille? Who did this to you?"

Finally, after three months, here was the snap, click and pull that he was looking for. "Nobody did this to me. I like myself this way. Nobody's forcing you to stay, Robert. Nobody told you to actually care. Don't do me any favors by telling me that you're doing this to be fucking noble. I don't need your pity." She bit out every word through clenched teeth.

He looked at her with a stare that finally made him understand why. "I don't pity you, Cam. This isn't pity...don't you know the difference between pity and love?"

"It doesn't matter. I don't want either and I surely don't want both." She stood up and walked to the window. "Leave now, Rob."

He drops everything he gathered on the bed and slowly walks toward her. He puts his arms around her and she flinches and starts struggling. "Stop it! Get off me!" But he doesn't, he just holds her, more tightly, saying nothing but hushing sounds. "STOP IT!"

He feels her tears dropping on his arm - one, two, three, more, a torrent, a typhoon.

"Stop it..." she whispers "...I'm not worth it..." and she finally slacks into his arms.

"Shh..." he soothes. "I've got you...You have me..."

She's so sensitive and insecure that you have to handle her with so much care.

He's been dancing around walls and virtual eggshells. But he wants her like he wants to live, to breathe.

"You're worth it." He said. "Worth all the riches in the world"

She bites her lower lip and blushes.

"Princess..." That single word, that hypocorism has a price over rubies, over diamonds and that - that one word married with his voice - wins her.

***

(Inspired by the 10 dollar college word "Hypocorism")

She was older than him by about five years but that doesn't stop him from calling her "girl, girl, girl..."

He would call her girl in different inflections

- while he's exploring the expanse of her skin: "Girl, you've got the softest skin. Golden, caramel, sweet...my sweet girl..."
-while he's telling her promises of what she'd get if she's good: "If you're a good girl, I'll go down on you like a starving man..."
- while he's buried deep in her: "You feel so good, so warm and tight. Take it like that...that's my girl"
-and while he's holding her after. He'd whisper it so quietly, like it's a secret between him and her skin: "You're my girl"

But he'd never refer to her as a girl in public. He'll have different titles for her - like when he introduces her to his friends (This gorgeous woman is...) or when he refers to her in a restaurant or at a bar when he's ordering her a drink (The lady would like to have a Cuba Libre, please) or even in a formal situation (Miss X would prefer...)

She secretly loves it. Like it was their own tiny secret; like it was her secret identity. It was a symbiotic trade off. He gives her the reins in public but she allows him to manhandle her behind closed doors.

Yes, she was his girl.

He knocked on her door, which she promptly opened after three knocks. "Oh." she said "It's you." He couldn't decipher if it was surprise or disappointment in her voice. He stood by the doorway while she went in and left the door wide open.

"Wipe your feet on the mat. I don't mind dirty shoes but I hate having to clean up the tracks." She said, nonchalantly. He wondered if this was a euphemism; an analogy of what he was asking from her; of what she was willing to offer. She was, after all, inviting him in her heart and in her life; dirty shoes and all. He wondered if he was worth it, if he was worth her attention; worth her affection worth her love.

"In or out..." she says from the kitchen as she was making coffee. "You're letting in a draft and I don't want to have to catch a cold."

He smiled as he stepped forward and turned around to close the door. "So, how's your day, Dear?" He asked as he accepted the coffee she handed.

There's a cavity on the tooth we've designated as your sweet one. It's there that I live. Perhaps I am your assigned punishment for every second of desire we've personified and created tangible.

He loves to kiss her. When he does, he gets so intoxicated by it but he just couldn't resist. And though he knows he'll eventually be at his tipping point, he shows no signs of restraint. It is as if his intoxication is his life force; his very reason for existence.

So he kisses her...