There’s different kinds of tired in this world.
There’sI had a hard day’s worktired. There’sI’m emotionally exhaustedtired. And there’sa serial killer kept me up all night with orgasms that shook my very foundationtired.
The latter left me in a numb jelly-bones state of sleepiness as my heavy lids cracked to the winter light of the Christmas season seeping through the curtains to wake me.
I’m exhausted, worn out, and deliciously sore from all the ways Cole used my body. My dark desires came to life in the form of the Serial Killer Santa who saw past the carefully honed exterior I was willing to show the world and accepted the parts of me I’ve been afraid to confront.
And in return, he trusted me with his true self, his dark nature, his origin story. It was so easy to bear our souls to one another. And so easy to give my body over to the pleasure he wrung out of me.
In the cold light of day, as everything settles into my weary bones, I accept what I didn’t let myself believe last night. I don’t want this to end. I want to see Cole again.
I want to date a serial killer.
I want to date a fucking serial killer!
But he’s so much more than that. Not all heroes wear capes. And not all heroes are praised. But I’ll give him all the praise and adoration he deserves, in any way I can.
My mind instantly wanders to thoughts of us going on normal people dates. Ice skating together, picking out a Christmas tree, making our cookie baking excursions a regular tradition.
Oh no. He’s done it. He’s made this grinch’s heart grow three sizes. Before I know it he’ll have me holding hands with the Who’s singing carols around a tree.
What has he done to me?
I’m not in love with Christmas, but…maybe I’ve softened to it a bit. Maybe the true meaning of Christmas is just taking out bad people and fucking with frosting.
And I guess being with the people you care about matters too.
But the brutal reality of morning settles over me, the realization that Cole is gone and I have no way of contacting him. All I have is a first name and the knowledge that he works in a box factory. That’s not enough to go on.
Fuck. I might have just found someone perfect for me, someone who can handle my breed of crazy, and I just let him go.
Why do I have to be so slow to pull the trigger?
Flinging the blankets off my limp limbs, I rise to throw on the oversized t-shirt from last night and inspect the rest of the apartment. Maybe he left a note or something.
The coffee table is bare. The couch looks ordinary. His back pack is gone from the dining table. The cookies are still on the counter (except for the one Sasha apparently dragged to the floor to lick the frosting from). There’s no trace that Cole was ever here. Even the door and window are locked, not sure how he managed that.
Maybe he’s my Jack Dawson without the tragic death? The only proof he ever existed lives in my memory. And fuck, I’ll cherish those memories for the rest of my life, reliving the time a notorious murderer broke into my apartment and fucked me six ways from sunday on my death bed.
But really I’ll be thinking about how a complete stranger made me feel seen, made me feel more alive than I’d ever given myself permission to feel before.
How he took what is normally a dreary, depressing time of year and made me smile.
Licking frosting off my clit is one thing, but making me feel whole and loved when this time of year usually brings sorrow is the best gift he could have given me.
If there is a God and if he is merciful, maybe Cole and I will bump into each other on the street so I can have a second chance to tell him how I feel.
Please, God, just give me one more chance?
Now that the snow plows have had a chance to clear the roads, I gear up to brave the kind of cold only Detroit can achieve to get some actual groceries, not just snacks and cookies. Plus, upon feeding Sasha cat food this morning to wash down the taste of human flesh, I realized the bag was almost empty. So back to the store I go. Perhaps I’ll give in to the Christmas spirit and get a sugar cookie latte while I’m at it.
The button for the elevator beeps just before the doors open to reveal Mel from upstairs. We’ve bumped into each other countless times so I’ve perfected my Ihave no idea what you sound like when you comevoice. I offer her a warm smile as I step into the elevator and we stand a respectable distance apart.
“Morning, Mel,” I say in greeting. It would be rude to just ride in silence without at least the customary hello.
“Um. Morning, Noelle.” She’s acting strange this morning. She seems reluctant, like when someone has something to say and they don’t want to spit it out.
Finally she settles the debate on whether to speak her mind or not and says, “Hey. You and your…um…friend were really loud last night. If he’s going to be over more often, do you mind keeping it down?”
