Page 20
Story: Raindrops
Mathéo
I follow Micki into a beautiful, light-flooded apartment. The building is old, so the ceilings are high, and the old wooden floorboards radiate a warmth and comfort I’ve never felt in my penthouse. Or maybe it’s just Micki filling everything here with his love. He quietly closes the door behind me, and I turn to face him.
“Hey.” His gaze is cautious, his eyes flicker nervously. It feels like I’m looking in the mirror. I feel exactly the same.
“Hello.”
“Do you want a drink? Can I make you a coffee? Would you like some breakfast? We have a really good bakery just around the corner.”
My stomach is so empty, the word “breakfast” is enough to make it grumble. It’s loud enough that I wish the earth would swallow me whole, but Micki laughs. “Decision made. Did you bring a jacket?”
“In the car.”
“Come on then. We’ll be back in ten minutes at the latest.” He grabs my hand exuberantly and pulls me with him. His fingers are dry and warm, soft with short, dark green painted fingernails.
When he sees me looking at our joined hands, he quickly tries to pull away, but I don’t let go. Don’t want to let go yet.
“I need this for tonight.” He mutters an apology, while nodding at his fingertips.
I try to find anything inside me that’s bothered by his painted fingernails, but I come up empty. Quite the opposite, I think it suits him. “Why dark green? Does it match with the outfit?”
I let his fingers slide through mine and Micki laughs. “No, not really. Each of us girls have a different color. Always the same.” I flinch at the word girls, but Micki doesn’t even notice. It’s probably totally normal for him; he does dance the female part in his crew after all. “Nika, for example, has black and her ring fingers are neon green.” I remember seeing that even back then when we first met on St. émile in her pictures on Instagram. “Vicki had pink and Lea has golden yellow. I have dark green. I wanted a more muted color that would match my outfits if we went out afterwards.”
We walk down the street, and I still have his hand in mine. It’s not really holding hands, but my fingers are loosely gripping his and ... I don’t want to let him go.
“You don’t have to do that, and certainly not in public.” Micki’s gaze falls to our joined hands, almost startled.
I don’t give a shit what others think about me. I never have. There’s only one exception, one person whose opinion carries far too much weight in my life. My father, who’s definitely not here. He’s far away and for the first time in my life I feel like I have a chance to decide something for myself, to decide what I really want. And I don’t want to give up this moment. I don’t want to think about what it means that I’m holding a man’s hand, that it’s wrong, because it feels so damn good to have Micki’s slender fingers in mine.
“But may I, if I’d like to?”
Micki smiles sheepishly, then nods.
I love the French breakfast. Coffee, croissants, that’s all I really need to be happy, but Micki has other plans. “I’ll show you what we have for breakfast here.”
He mischievously whispers the words in my ear and ignores the golden butter croissants to order pretzel rolls, grain rolls and pretzels. Finally, two pretzel croissants are added to the bag.
“Honestly, how can you ruin something as delicious as a croissant with pretzel lye?” Stunned, I roll my eyes as we leave the little bakery. But Micki just laughs, throwing his head back.
“Everything is better with pretzel lye, you’ll see. And these are by far the best pretzel croissants in the whole city. They are an auto-buy! I can’t leave here without pretzel croissants. And now let’s go, I’m hungry.”
Micki must have an amazing metabolism. I never imagined such a petite person could eat so damn much. And it’s so much fun watching him at it. The way he rolls his eyes as he bites into his pretzel roll with jam, or how he sticks his ring finger in his mouth to lick off a blob of honey. He’s carefree and unconcerned with how he looks as he enjoys the delicious breakfast.
We’re talking about random stuff, everything from my drive up here to the weather, and his attention is constantly on me. He’s attentive without being intrusive or chummy, and I love being around him.
From time to time my mind switches on, asking me what the actual fuck I’m doing here, but then my heart answers. Do you feel this? That’s what you want, that’s why you’re here and nothing else. Nothing else is important.
But it is important and the longer we’re together over the day, the more difficult it gets. I’m caught between “I want to feel Micki’s lips on mine” and “there’s no way I can kiss a man” . I mean, I can’t do that. Right?
Ah, damn it! My head keeps telling me in no uncertain terms that I’m making the biggest mistake of my life, but my body keeps searching for his. My fingers on his fingertips, my hand in the small of his back, standing as close to him as possible. So close that I can smell him. The minty scent of his hair and the lemony scent in his perfume. Both scents that would also work on a woman.
Sometimes my brain wants to play a trick on me and rub the female Micki in my face. But that’s wrong. Micki is a man—no clothes, make-up or scent will change that. It would be complete nonsense too. He’s absolutely perfect. No, I still don’t understand why I feel this way about a man and yes, I’m still overcome with panic, and I’d love to run out of the apartment from time to time, but I don’t because I understand that my heart can’t let go of Micki. Of him as a human being, regardless of gender or sex.
***
My phone rings and Micki’s number appears on my screen. He’s been away at his gig for about 90 minutes now. It took him an hour to get ready and, to be honest, with make-up and clothes he creates the perfect illusion.
Although I think illusion is the wrong word, it’s still him, still Micki. Just another layer of his identity. Dark eye make-up, but no lipstick. Instead, he had on blush to emphasize his naturally high cheekbones. His pants fell loosely around his legs, but sat snugly around his narrow waist and hugged his tight torso as like a second skin. He combined that with a crop top and a long-sleeved blouse, buttoned up to the last button and tucked into the high waistband. The high heels clacked across the floor with every step. He was hot and he knew the effect he was having.
He. That’s the only reason I didn’t slap his ass. That’s the only reason I didn’t grab him by the hips as he walked past, why I didn’t press him against the nearest wall and grind my body against his. The only reason I didn’t kiss him.
Kissing has never been my thing, nothing I ever really wanted. But I want it with Micki. My lips tingle and long for his. My head won’t let me though. My mind and my desire tug at me from two opposite sides and I feel like I’m tearing apart. I’m afraid of the night when I’m alone with Micki, because I know I can’t give him any of the things he might want. Nothing of what I want myself. How do we proceed from here? Is there even a way to proceed?
We actually planned that he’d come home straight after his show, so I’m surprised that Micki’s calling now. “Hey, what’s up?”
“The company we performed for has rented a lounge in a club for the night and we can come if we want. And we can bring guests. Drinks are for free. Would you like to go? Sam will be driving and can pick you up.”
My spontaneous answer is a hard no, but that’s not what leaves my mouth. The longer I’m alone in this apartment, the more my head takes over again and the more I panic about being alone with Micki
He’s gay, he has experience with men. I have no idea about anything, but I’m fairly certain, no matter how much my heart is set on Micki and claims to want him, I can’t. Not in the way he deserves.
Table of Contents
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- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20 (Reading here)
- Page 21
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- Page 25
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- Page 47