Lolita

Soaked in sweat, his eyes shot open, his torso hair matted to his skin, his dark hair leaving a visible wet patch on the silken sheets of his pillow. The hand that lay on his chest holding him and the leg that wrapped around his body felt familiar and comfortable. The steady rhythm of hearts and the slow breeze through the window, calming his nightmare woken slumber.

As he stared down at the familiar curve of her hips that he knows like the back of his hand, her bare pale skin on his, steady rise and fall of her chest and the young face he realised was calm, untouched by age, maturity and life, all he wanted was to hold her closer. Her black hair sprawled in a curly mess on the pillow and he knew how it would slip through his fingers were he to run his hands along them. Her skin, barely covered in clothing in the nightlight and her moles and the dimples in her bottom of her spine that even she doesn't know of their existence.

She was here day after day, following him around like a lost kitten. He knew better than to let her break through his defences, he knew better than to build weak walls around him. He remembered the night when she was thoroughly drunk and neither was he sober enough to push her out of the door and send her home. He remembered the night where she pressed and pressed taunting him, teasing him with those wide brown eyes and lips that look soft, full and tempting. He remembered the night where his restraint broke and he caved in to his desires, to her eyes and her lips and those teasing hips.

The nightmares that followed each night as he shut his eyes were frightening. He would see her run to him in a barren field where he would be lying on the ground very dead and people gathering around them laughing monstrously at her as she cried naked over his dead form. When he woke night after night, drenched in his own sweat, his heart running a mile a minute, he watched her form that lay draped over him, a part of him wishing to hold her in an embrace so tight.

The other part of him, the sane part knew better than that, knew that he should leave her instead of corrupting her youth, poisoning her soul. She should be seeing someone her age, dating someone her maturity, not a man in his late 30s with a fancy car and money to throw. Not just because he was a man wearing an expensive suit in his expensive suite with french windows that stared into the cityscape.

He would have to walk away and he would that day. He will pen down a letter for her, tell her that he had to leave and that she should move on. He will tell her not to waste her tears on his retreating form. He would tell her to be brave and grow up and date men who would actually love her. He would also tell her that she could do better than him, and she should start working on her dreams.

He would walk away, leaving her some money and many memories but not even one of his belongings behind. If there could be a possibility that she would think this was a dream and move on, he would hope for that possibility. He would hope that she would find her true purpose than being someone’s lolita. What he wouldn't tell her in the letter is that there will be spaces in between words and in those spaces he had loved her.