Angela wakes to the sound of Francis whimpering on his living room’s worn sofa. She squints through her fatigue, sniffles, to find the entire house filled with the young man’s scent.
The siren wishes she could walk over to find him—or, at least, call out to Francis so that he would turn around to face her—yet, the only thing she can do is wait, until he has ridden his orgasm out, turns around with his cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red, then, notices she had been watching.
‘I could have helped you,’ these are the first words Angela writes to him, once Francis has washed up, and he sits next to her tub again.
‘You were asleep,’ Francis replies.
The siren frowns. She grabs the notebook from him again, a little more violently than the previous time. This, makes Francis’s shoulders tense. Perhaps, he has finally remembered, that she is wild—not something to be tamed, or toyed with. ‘I want to be closer to you,’ Angela writes, as she taps at the journal with the end of what has now apparently become her pen.
‘I do not want us to be far for too long. It is not fun. Not good.’
The young man purses his lips together. He turns his head away from her. Angela isn’t sure what exactly is wrong, but, she figures she must have done something to upset him, because it seems as if Francis is about to cry.
‘Sorry,’ she adds, even though she cannot say what it is exactly, that she is sorry for. This is a messy start, to what may be the end of a relationship doomed to never begin, in the end. Maybe, he regrets it—fucking her.
Maybe, he has come to tell Angela, that it is time for her to return home. Back, to where she belongs.
The sea.
The ocean, and its many waves.
‘I know,’ Francis eventually writes. His features are shadowed with pain. He presses his lips together and grips at the pen a little tighter. ‘I know’—Angela is surprised to find him right the same words twice.
‘Yes, I admit, it would have been nice to have fallen asleep by your side last night,’ he continues. ‘However…’ Francis bites his lower lip, then furrows his brows. ‘I am afraid, that nothing more can be done. About our situation.’
Angela steals the pen from his grasp on an irritated whim. ‘That is nonsense—we have not even tried!’ she scribbles away at the note book furiously. ‘Perhaps, there is away; but we simply have not found it yet.’
To Angela’s own bewilderment, Francis snatches the pen back from her fingers. ‘And then, what?’ he asks her, and the siren is left wondering, if he realizes, that he is biting his own lip to the point of bleeding. ‘I would have to give up living on land. Or, you would need to bid farewell to the ocean—neither of those ideas sound pleasant. It would be foolish to change ourselves, as such, for one another.’
She frowns. ‘You do not wish to bed me anymore?’
And he raises a brow at her. ‘Whenever did I say that?’ Francis leans forward. He slides his palm over the siren’s knuckles. He presses their lips together, then observes Angela through lidded eyes, as they slowly inch away from each other. ‘I am still interested in you,’ he writes, with his free hand, as the other thumbs at Angela’s wrist. ‘Only, I do not know how this should work—how we could make this work.’
Angela nods in agreement. Unfortunately, she is familiar with this feeling all too well. Somewhere, deep down, she had hoped her curiosity for the young man would have dissipated once they’d touched each other. Somehow, though—her yearning for him has only grown, since last night came to pass. ‘You do not mind, that I am of Siren descent?’ she asks him.
Indeed, Angela remains rather perplexed at the fact that he is able to stand the sight of her, when most men would run the other way.
Francis scrunches his nose together. As he shifts against his usual seat, the small wooden stool, it occurs to Angela that he smells of tangerines. She wonders about what he was up to, earlier this morning.
The young man taps at the journal. Inside, he has written a follow-up question to Angela’s own: ‘And you? Do you not mind me being human?’
Granted, he makes a good point. Humans, in general, tend to be… quite strange: especially to the eyes of siren-folk.
Angela pauses to consider her answer. She decides, she does not want to write it down. Instead, she shows Francis how she feels, through acts of fervent affections, and only that.
She kisses him again, but it is rougher this time—untamed like blisters she would leave across the necks of her past lovers. Claw marks and teeth punctures, that still exist today on their skins. “I want to try something,” Angela whispers, her tone hot and breathy, and Francis stares at her like she has descended into madness.
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