Page 126 of Mario
“Okay,” I whisper.
Standing is a whole event.
My thighs tremble.
My body is sore in places I did not know could be sore. There is a deep, satisfied ache low in my pelvis that makes every step a reminder of everything that happened.
I take two careful steps toward the bathroom.
Then stop in front of the mirror.
Oh.
I look wrecked.
Truly wrecked.
My hair is tangled and wild around my shoulders, still bearing the evidence of his hands. My lips are swollen. My eyes are heavy but no longer hollow. My skin has color again, and there is something about my face I do not recognize at first.
Then I do.
I look rested.
Thoroughly fucked, yes.
But rested.
I lean closer to the mirror and see the mark on my breast.
I touch it with two fingers, and memory flashes hot through me.
His mouth there. Nipping and sucking relentlessly, alternating between teeth and tongue.
My knees nearly give out.
“Absolutely not,” I tell my reflection.
My reflection does not look convinced.
I brush my teeth, wash my face, and take a very careful shower. The hot water makes my muscles loosen and my skin sting in a few interesting places. By the time I get out, I feel slightly more human.
I take the stairs down carefully, mindful of my shaky legs.
Everything looks exactly the same as it always has.
But I know inside it’s different.
He has been here, eaten here, slept here.
Nothing is the same, nor will it ever be again.
I walk into the kitchen and realize I am actually hungry.
I open the fridge to pull out the leftovers and see new things in there.
I stare at them.
For a second, I genuinely wonder if I am hallucinating.
