No Connection

by llamajoy

because of sophie b.'s song by the same name. because I believe that elena and reno had a brief, mostly tempestuous love affair, when she was a trainee and he a turk. because I think reno is rather italian.

the first time she fucked him it was at his apartment. friday, after work, of course, their second date. they'd gone out to a movie and found themselves necking even when the lights came back on, and the ushers made ugly faces at them. he laughed, she shoved her hands in her pant-suit pockets and blushed.

he invited her back to his flat; he made spaghetti while she sat on his couch in her socked feet and thought about his hands. he swore when he couldn't get the jar of tomato sauce open, and she laughed. he came out of the kitchen, drippy spoon and all, and kissed her. spicy like oregano, and warm and rich and entirely too good. she opened the can for him, and he stuck out his tongue. after their dinner and the wine, his hands slipped underneath her shirt and she straddled his lap, there on the couch, in only her socks. the spaghetti, for all its simplicity, was excellent, and she remembered being surprised that he could cook.

the second time she fucked him it was at her own place, that sunday afternoon. takeout, this time, because she hated to cook. but she bought fresh fruit from the stand outside her apartment, the juicy miracle-in-the-city kind of strawberries, that she couldn't really afford. she didn't tell him that. when they ate them, he licked the trickling juices from her palm, and she shivered-- but she liked it better when he wasn't looking, when he suckled his own long fingers with his eyes half-closed. he was on top, this time, and he purred like his motorcycle when she lifted her hips to let him in. it was the first time she'd had anyone in her bed, the first time she'd shoved her many pillows to the floor and held a man against her instead of an illusion.

she wasn't yet decided as to which was better.

the third time was her place again, the fourth, his; all in under a week. the fifth time they did it in his office, next thursday, afterhours, too hot to wait. he unfastened his pants and she turned off the lights, and his phone rang just as she'd gotten her skirt hiked high enough. whoever it was didn't leave a message.

the sixth time she cried. it was friday morning before work; she'd spent the night on his couch. there was no logical reason behind it, naked next to him, the radio playing tinny jazz in the grey early light. she just sobbed dryly into his shoulder, and he smoothed her hair for a long time. his hands were warm, cradling her waist and holding her against him. he never said anything about it, and she pulled on her shoes and went to work.

that day at lunch she found him in the elevator with the bills payable accountant from two floors down. she couldn't find it in herself to be surprised. she slapped him, of course, and he winced, his eyes not leaving hers. the little blue-eyed secretary only made a face, wiggling her round hips rudely.

she still had the strawberry rinds in her trash can, and she emptied her garbage with a vengeance.


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