That's what friends are for

"They're like chocolate cake, like cigarettes; I know they're bad for me, but I just can't leave them alone."

She pauses at the corridor, the plush carpeting was a soothing distraction for her aching feet. Damn the man who invented heels and the women who covet it. She slipped off her shoes and sighed as her toes sunk into the welcoming cushion of almost 5 star upholstery.

The door opens just as she relaxes.

"You know, you look hot in heels, but so much more comfortable barefoot."

He knelt down and picked up her bejeweled heels, touching the curve of her leg.

"Damn you're sexy."

They didn't fuss with pleasantries. He leaned forward and kissed her without ceremony, tentatively at first, questioning, giving her a chance to back out. His hands lingered on her thighs, feathering up to the beginning of the curve of her back.

She kissed back shyly, unwilling to make a conscious decision, though her body was already responding, opening up to his caresses and becoming soft and pliant in his arms.

He let out a little growl at the back of his throat, time's up kitten. His hand reached up and grabbed her breasts underneath her blue satin shirt, unbuckling her bra in one swift move. She closed her mind to emotion and let instinct take over.

God, it had been too long.

Soon they were naked, his dark skin contrasting against hers. She bent down and swirled him in her mouth, just like she did earlier with the straw in the lounge. He had been watching her, and she knew he was seeing through her. She had started the game of seduction long before it became a conscious decision. When she uncrossed and recrossed her legs, the heels she wore that night showing off her ankles, when she tucked her hair behind her ear, the way she bit her lip when he asked her how she liked her drink.

He grit his teeth, flexing his muscles as he did so. She was so careful, so gentle. So damned soft.

He wanted to tear her apart.

With a snarl he threw her on her back, but his teeth were slow and tantalising, his fingers callused but tender. Pushing her. And pushing her. Close, but never letting her go. She gripped at a pillow in frustration. Moans tearing out from her throat unwillingly. She needed this. She needed to feel again.

"Please..!"

He stopped for a fraction of a second, and she gasped audibly.

"No!"

In one swift movement, he plunged into her. He nearly lost control. She was so wet, so ready for him. Her muscles created a suction that nearly drove him to insanity. She was relentless, but he did not move.

"Is this what you want?"

She gazed up at him, her mouth dry and her back arched. She moved underneath him, and he fought to regain control. She clutched at his shoulders, the shoulders she had admired from a distance when she walked past the gym countless of times. Her eyes pleaded at him, her body yielded to him. All the while letting out tiny whimpers of desperation.

Unable to fight it any longer, he pulled her head back and pushed as far as he could go. Slowly, inch by inch, he took from her as much as he gave. Until they both reached a point that could not be contained.

It did not take her long, her face was contorted as if in pain, but she let out a groan of contentment as she was finally released. He looked down at her in the midst of his own joy, at that moment, not needing to hide the love he felt for this girl who wanted so much to become a woman, but whose heart was torn and unappreciated by another man.

She wasn't ready for anything more than this.

He wasn't worried, he had time. He could wait. And she could never know, not before she was ready. He would remain her friend for now, because anything more would push her away. And he needed her. He had always needed her. Now his plan was to be indispensable to her, the way she had crept into his heart without either of them realising. Yes, patience. She will grow to love him in the end.

Lying in his arms, she felt a sense of peace and relief. It had been too long.

Block 2

The door was shut but that hardly kept out the sounds of persistent fucking that were coming out of the 2 bedroom apartment. The neighbours of Block 2B had varied opinions. The men lived vicariously through the owner's indiscretions and thought he was a right stud. The women gave him dirty looks whenever he was around and gossiped viciously about the girl that was with him.

They usually arrived seperately, him in his gold four-wheel drive and her in her black sedan. But they walked hand in hand through security, she the blushing ingenue, and him the self-assured gentleman. They usually gave him a thumbs-up followed by a cheeky grin if they were feeling particularly sociable. The women said that the innocence was a facade. She was a gold-digger, trying to get her manicured claws deep into the man who was obviously well off.

But something was different today. She was sitting outside the pad-locked door, alone and waiting.

Mrs. Unit C had been watching her for 3 hours. And all she had done was stare resolutely in front of her. At times her eyes were brimming with tears but as the minutes ticked by they became dry again. Mrs. Unit C continued to keep watch, taking a good look at her in the process.

No fancy nails or designer purse. She was wearing her hair up with a simple tank and shorts. Her breasts were firm and her hips soft with the gift of youth. Was this the picture of a vile mistress that they talked about during the day? In spite of herself Mrs. Unit C opened her door and spoke to the girl behind the grille.

"You can get the key from security if you want."

The girl was surprised, but smiled at her and shook her head.

"No, that's alright. I don't want to bother anyone, I'll just wait here for him. I'm not the owner anyway, I have no legal right to the keys."

She looked down as she said it, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

Not knowing what else to say, and surpressing the urge to comfort her, Mrs. Unit C closed her door, feeling conflicted at her view of Unit 2B. The next day she mentioned it over coffee with the other women of Block 2.

"She looked so sad."

Mrs. Unit A looked at her in disbelief. She was a single mother whose husband had left her for his secretary. The affair was very distressing and all, but the most painful thing about it for her was that it had been so cliche. Because she had never thought they would fall into that pattern and into that box. Mrs. Unit A certainly had no illusions about love, but she didn't begrudge it either.

"The minute she got involved with him she made her choice. She has no one to blame but herself."

Her voice hardened.

"Tell me, what kind of a person gets involved with a married man? Its like eating someone's leftovers!"

Mrs. Unit C tried to defend her.

"But maybe she really loves him?"

"How you feel is not a choice, but staying with someone is a choice. Having an affair with a married man, now that's a choice, not something that is beyond your control."

"But when love comes into play, shouldn't all logic go out of the window?" Mrs. Unit D chimed in, always keen to be the devil's advocate.

"Everybody has a choice. He made a choice when he married his wife. He made a choice when he chose NOT to divorce her. And he makes a choice everytime he fucks her. WE'RE the ones without a choice and are forced to listen everytime they're here!"

They grimaced together.

Mrs. Unit A continued softly.

"My ex-husband had a choice too, and he made it so quickly that sometimes I wonder if what we had meant anything to him at all."

Her words hung in the air. It was the first time she had talked about it openly since it happened. The other women had noted that there had not been any arguments or shouting that came from Unit A. In all appearances it had been a happy and fulfilling marriage, and at all group functions they had seem the most well adjusted and were doting parents. The divorce came out of nowhere, but they naturally assumed that there had been problems within their walls.

Now they realised that perhaps Mrs. Unit A had been the most shocked of them all.

Mrs. Unit C reached out and touched her arm. She looked up, a resolute smile on her face.

"Don't worry, I chose to move on."

Writing prompts and where to find them

She shifted in her seat, the screen in front of her was her blank canvass. The more she stared at it, the harder it was to actually start typing. The lack of colour in her life was reflected in the white box that she was supposed to be pouring her heart out in words.

What was once so easy to her was immensely difficult at this moment. Where she once felt passion and exhilaration in each written (or typed) word in front of her, was now just a burden of expression. Her thoughts went to the many journals and notebooks lying littered around cyberspace and in the real world. There were so many channels she could use to weave her magic and leave her innermost thoughts and fancies.

But what she lacked was the courage to see them through.

Finally, spent from trying to compose a masterpiece, she crawled under the covers, dejected at another night's failure. Another night of trying and failing to transfer her thoughts into words, another night of trying to fill the near empty glass of inspiration in her heart.

He sighed as she settled next to him, his thoughts deep in slumber, dreaming of green valleys and fields in the dry lands of Africa. He pulls her to him, wrapping his arms around her and roughly shoves his right leg in between hers, automatically breathing her in.

"Mmmm..."

She relaxes against him, her frustration melting at his touch. And they rest together.

Tomorrow she will wake up to face her empty world again. Tomorrow she will once again struggle with her self esteem and identity in an environment that she was once accepted in, but could no longer pretend to be a part of.

But for now, she relinquished her fears and self-doubts. Their bodies lying next to each other, recharging; rebooting.

And they rest together.

How the extraodinary became ordinary

"When you live abroad for a week, you write a book. When you live abroad for a month, you write an article. When you live abroad for a year, you write nothing at all".

In a couple of weeks time it would be exactly one year that I have been in this new country. One year since I've uprooted myself and moved across the word, just on a whim. Almost a year later I find myself nowhere near any of the goals that I have set myself. No career, no money, no increased lust of life. Instead, I stagnated, stifling in this damp, gloomy air. Too stingy to live life to the fullest and too bitter to care.

However, a strange thing happened. In the midst of all this pretentious bullshit about growing up and "finding oneself", I fell in love. The sad part of it all is this is probably the only thing I DIDN'T come here to do.

Oy vey. Fate sure is a funny bitch.

What is your mission?

Having just watched Terminator: Salvation, I admit I'm just a tad bit affected.

What is your mission soldier?

To facilitate the re-introduction of one Amelia.T in literature, inspiration, and all things pink.