Itch
Hawksmoor is at the door, his callused feet scratching against metal.
Smiling she keys the door open but her mouth is already dragging smoke by the time he sees her. When he shoves her against the wall she exhales into his mouth and he chokes it down like smog on a L.A. morning.
She's got that feeling in her gut that tells her she best break out the alcohol; the stuff that burns deep and long. Her fingers itch, more from disuse than electricity, more from lack than too much.
Feels worn down and tired because she knows her century/generation/epoch is coming to an end.
Still beautiful.
Hawkesmoor has his palms -callused- under her shirt, scratching at her stomach, scratching at her hip, and his tongue is so far down her throat she doesn't have to worry about breathing for a moment or two.
Or three.
Still beautiful?
No.
Still decent. She's still has the taut stomach and the tight thighs and the skin that slips over muscle so toned you can bounce a dime off her ass. Her stomach, her thighs. Feels her head for a fever that's not there; so hot lately: it's not her.
He pushes into her and she's surprised he isn't callused all over; surprised that neither is she -still soft in some places, still warm. He groans into her mouth and she pulls away to get some smoke into her lungs. Hawkesmoor uses the time to draw in a real breath -to pull at her neck, collarbone.
Is she sick?
Engineer tells her no: swirling metal coalesces around her body, drawing tighter on her taunt(slick, hard) skin, checking for bacteria, for disease. She's the 20th century -already rotten at the core.
The High, on his mountain top like some damn Olympian, thinking like he could change her world; he never asked her and she thinks that she's hurt. Taking a drag out of her cigarette is easy though and she knows she fine.
Scratch that.
(Callused fingers down her back; tip of her buttocks, pulling, kneading pressing down down until he's deep inside, mouth sucking smog from her lips)
She's never been fine, never been ok-honky-dory-golly-gee-whiz-would- you-look-at-that. She's the 20th Century; the Age of Wonder was jaded before it began; people hated technology before it was a sliver of metal. January 1st, 1900 and she felt old before conception.
Different?
Yes.
She's getting nothing out of this, lets Hawkesmoor go until he's finished and rolls onto his back. As he tries to breathe steady she snubs out her cigarette on the side table. She turns back to him, her hand slipping across his chest to grab at the pack that's resting on his side of the bed. He grabs her hand too quickly, clasping it too hard in his own, eyes all hooded and tired he leans in to kiss her and she lets him.
People don't want freedom.
Control.
Slips over him, draws the sheets around their legs and rests her head just above his collarbone, "I'm tired." She whispers before pulling herself up, legs straddling him, "Exhausted."
He nods and she pushes her hips down, blonde hair falling over her eyes as she pulls him up for another kiss -deep, long.
City morning.
A century old and she misses the Golden Age.