Cillian
Somewhere In The Woods
I wake up the next morning with a raging hard-on…
And Saoirse nowhere in sight.
I can still smell her on my clothes. She fell asleep tucked against my side, nestled perfectly against me like she was always meant to be there.
Took some convincing, though. I had to convince her that her fucking nipples would freeze off in the cold if she didn’t huddle close.
She’s every bit as stubborn as she was at eighteen.
And twice as beautiful.
Which made it doubly hard for me to keep my hands to myself. But that is exactly what I did.
Part of me thinks getting shot by Budimir was more torturous.
As we talked through most of the night, her smiles had come a little easier each time. But her walls sure as hell didn’t come down. And now, who knows where the fuck she’s gone?
I run my hands over my face in exasperation and get to my feet.
“Saoirse?” I call out.
With the sun sitting high in the sky, the entire landscape is illuminated. Beyond the trees, I can see the vast meadow of grass stretching out for miles around.
Off in the distance, I can see the gleaming husk of the Rolls Royce with its burned-out engine.
At my feet, the ashy remnants of the fire smolder. And next to it, scribbled in the dirt…
I frown.
Is that supposed to be… me?
I kneel next to it and scrutinize the doodle etched in the soft loam. It’s a sleeping man with a very familiar contour to his face. Given how crude the canvas is, I’m amazed and impressed by the lifelike beauty of the drawing.
“Maidin mhaith,” murmurs a voice in lilting Irish.
Good morning.
I turn around to find Saoirse standing a few feet away from me, peering down with an amused smile dancing on the edge of her lips.
“I thought you’d left me to the wolves,” I remark.
She smiles. “We don’t have wolves out here.”
“I was speaking metaphorically.”
She’s still got my trench coat wrapped around her slight frame. It swallows up her body, making her look even smaller, even skinnier.
In the bright light of day, she looks even more breathtaking.
Her eyes are so hypnotically blue that I can’t help staring, even as I notice her start to squirm under the unyielding attention.
Her hair is still wild, a mess of curls and waves that cascades down her shoulders. She looks tired. Worn. Resigned.
It looks like she’s regressed back into sadness.