Chapter 8
JANIS JOPLIN
I thought the first night was a one-off.
The second night, a coincidence.
But by night five,
I realized he could be waiting for me.
Ten nights have passed.
I’m not stalking him.
I’m on my regular eight o'clock stroll.
I’m not wearing shades in the dark just so I can watch him.
'Cause that would be pathetic.
Each time, he happens to be here again.
Two coffees, one untouched.
Always around this time.
Always the same table.
Always alone.
Always looking good
from the other side of the street.
And every night he waits,
another piece of my heart splits off
and runs right for him.
Some nights he stays ‘til closing.
Some he only makes it half an hour.
Every day, I keep thinking—
this’ll be the night he doesn’t come.
This’ll be the night he finally gives up on me.
He’ll finally get tired of waiting.
He’ll decide I’m a lost cause.
But then he shows.
Every. Fucking. Time.
Taking another piece of my heart.
And here I am,
acting tough and not giving a shit,
on the same sidewalk,
with a fresh pack of smokes,
one cig twirling between my fingers—unlit—
with the city humming between us like a blown speaker.
I don’t know why I keep coming back.
Maybe because he does.
Maybe if he senses me on the other side of the glass, he won’t be left waiting alone. Even if I’m just smoke and shadow across the street.
Tonight, the air stings at fifty degrees.
It’s a Janis Joplin kind of night,
a wound she’d scream over a mic—
eyes shut,
heart breaking,
and numb to the cold
‘cause all the feelings are happening under the skin.
Joplin would’ve sung this night barefoot, drunk, dead sure it would wreck her.
My coat hangs open,
the hem brushing my knees every time a breeze slips by.
Joggers, crewneck, no bra,
and leather sneakers with half-tied laces.
Just bummin’ it to The Andrew Show.
I scratched a broken heart into the building with my key three nights ago.
It’s where I lean to watch him,
right next to this cracked, concrete heart.
He’s wearing his black button-up tonight,
which means it’s a half-hour night.
In, out, gone again,
heading to some job I’ll never know about.
He doesn’t seem angry, only quiet
and tired,
with the cutest fucking yawn.
To anyone else,
he looks stood up, but isn’t ready to call it.
He sits the same way he does most nights:
elbow up,
the back of his hand pressed to his mouth,
the other wrapped loosely around the coffee.
There’s a worn but desperate cadence in him,
a song we never finished writing,
a guitar that can’t stop crying,
and he’s waiting on a stage for the next verse of me,
one leg stretched long under the table,
the other bent,
caught between staying and walking out.
Every time the door opens,
he looks up, still hoping it’s me,
pretending it won’t break him if it’s not.
Like maybe—
just maybe—
this’ll be the night.
I wanna know what’s going through his mind.
If he’s reliving it,
rewriting it,
still hearing the laughter caught in our breath,
still tasting the kiss,
still feeling my hands on his skin,
the same way I still feel his.
Or is he still trapped in the moment he pulled away from me…
“I’m gonna come—fuck—just from my mouth on you.”
I sink into him, into the wall,
brick scraping my spine,
fingers knotting in his hair.
Then his tongue slips beneath the hem of my panties and finds me.
The heat of me.
The breath of him.
Both soaked.
And when he licks my soft slit, it’s slow,
dragging through me—
one long, deep stroke.
A moan vibrates through him,
his face crushed into the cotton.
He doesn’t move,
his breath steaming through,
lips shaking.
“Fuck—”
His shoulders tense up.
“I’ve never—fuck—”
Another groan crashes out of him,
his fingers locking around my thighs.
He needs me to stay right fucking here.
A breath
Then again.
Then the next—
hot, broken—
lands right on my clit.
The pleasure sneaks up my spine,
trying to kill me gently.
His face is pressed into my pussy,
his mouth going slack as he comes,
his whole body collapsing into me,
giving me everything,
forgetting to keep anything for himself.
Then his forehead dips lower,
sliding down
until it rests at the crease of my thigh.
A breath rips out of him.
“Dio mio…
“Che cazzo c’ho che non va…”
The words drag down my skin,
too heavy to carry.
“I’m fuckin’ losin’ it—”
He sits back on his heel,
drops his head into his hand,
trying to catch up to his body,
his orgasm.
“Fuck—I’m sorry—”
God. He means it.
It wasn’t release—it was rupture.
He didn’t only come—he came undone.
And the worst part is
he thinks he has to say sorry for it.
I’m standing useless, frozen,
watching him break,
and it’s breaking me too.
He holds a trembling hand to his mouth.
“Just… give me a sec, alright?
“I’m tryin’ not to fuckin’ fall apart.”
He’s staring at the floor
with eyes begging for it
to keep him steady.
My legs are still open,
my dress still bunched around my waist.
I'm still exposed, thighs shaking.
My foot slips off the speaker.
I pull my dress down.
His head lifts.
“Shit,” he chokes out.
“I left you hangin’…
“I didn’t mean to—fuck,
“that’s not what I wanted.
“Not even close.”
His hand fumbles for the floor,
not trusting his own legs yet.
He rakes a hand down his face,
breath ripped apart.
“Jesus Christ. Sono incasinato. I’m all over the place right now. I’m sorry. I don’t know what the fuck that was.” Then he’s forcing himself to his feet, jaw tightening as he steps closer. “This whole night. I don’t usually—this ain’t normal. None of this is normal.”
His eyes meet mine, raw and shaking.
The walls around his gaze crumble.
He opens his mouth. Then closes it.
The words are clinging to his tongue,
refusing to fall out.
His breath stutters.
"Sono incasinato di brutto—"
Jaw tight, he shakes his head.
“Sonny, I—”
He’s trying to say something, anything.
There’s a second that passes
where neither of us moves.
Where it's only our breaths
beating against each other.
Then he breaks,
taking my head in his hands,
yanking me close as he leans in,
and kisses me—
the only thing that won’t fall apart in his mouth.
All panic. All ache.
His lips latch onto mine
like I caught him mid-collapse,
breath shaking, kiss trembling,
tongue hot with the taste of me.
He breathes in deep,
filling his lungs with me.
Then his lips melt,
tongue falling heavy,
sinking until I’m dizzy.
And when he breathes out through his nose, the world stops spinning long enough for him to be okay again,
for the kiss to spill warm,
all the way down,
flooding me head to toe.
And I know in that moment—
this is the kiss that ruins me.
He’s delivering the killshot,
and it cuts me open on the way in,
leaves the blade behind.
It’s too late.
I’ll feel this one in every sleepless night. In the seconds when something's not right. In all the places I swore were locked up tight. And I already know it won't matter how many days go by,
I’ll still fucking feel it,
right in the hollow it will leave behind.
I break away before it kills me.
He pushes my hair back.
“Be straight with me. Right now,” he says. “This still only one night for you?”
He braces his arm above me,
catching my hand with the other.
“I don’t wanna stop…
“but if you walk away—”
He stops himself.
“I—fuck, I don’t know how to say this.”
He laughs breathless, humorless.
“It’s hittin’ me now…
“I could keep goin’. God, I want to.
“But if I do, and you still walk away?”
He squints—“It’s not just me that’ll break. It’s everything we just had. We keep goin’, and you dip out? It’ll turn into any other night. And this deserves more. We both do. So please—I need to hear you say it again. That it ends tonight. 'Cause if so? I gotta stop here. I can't—”
Christ. I said one night.
You fuckin’ knew that.
The room spins, making me nauseous.
I can’t look him in the eyes anymore.
I feel sick.
If I open my mouth, I’ll either vomit,
cry,
or say shit I’ll regret.
Maybe I’ll do all three at once:
throw up all over the truth I’m trying to hold back with a sob.
“I have to go.”
I thought the words were only in my head, but I felt them leave my lips.
I know for sure when his face sinks.
His mouth parts, brows slanting.
“Right now?”
His voice cracks in half,
swallowing part of it down.
“C’mon, don’t do me like that. Don’t fuckin’ disappear on me, Sonny.”
My stomach turns over again,
the nausea only getting worse.
I’m trying to pull away,
but my hand's squeezing his tighter,
refusing to let go.
“I said one night…”
I shake my head,
as if that’ll make this easier.
“We agreed. One night.”
Andrew’s jaw clenches,
his eyes slipping away from me.
His hips fall into the brick, his forehead pressing against his forearm, teeth grinding, his eyes close—
“Se ne sta andando… e io non posso fermarla, cazzo.”
When his eyes open again,
they drag to me.
“I know. You told me.
“I heard every word.”
He fully turns to me now,
shoulder against the wall.
“But you really gonna tell me you can walk outta here, pulse not fuckin’ racing? Like we didn’t already fall apart in each other’s hands.” His gaze sits heavy on me, stunned and bleeding. “Like we didn’t feel all that, without even takin’ our goddamn clothes off.”
His head shakes,
but his hand in mine is steady,
the only part of him not crumbling to pieces.
“Don’t say that was just me. ‘Cause it wasn’t. I know it wasn’t.”
He wipes his forehead across his bicep, breath shredded, then sees his other hand’s trembling in front of him—
the one I’m not holding.
“Jesus—look at me.”
Another laugh escapes him broken.
“My fuckin’ hand’s shaking…
“and I didn’t even get inside you.”
When his eyes meet mine again,
all the fight drains out of him.
Like he’s never been more sure he’s fucked.
I wanted to make him fall apart.
Not fall apart.
He’s not supposed to be trembling because I touched him.
Not because I’m about to walk away.
I don’t want to be the reason he’s cracking from the inside out.