Good Friday by Samantha Conlon

twentysomethingpress:

leaning over to touch you at the art exhibition, some butterfly paintings or Rothko, you flick me away awkwardly, hit my palm and thumb, a signal of my failing 


walk in silence to a cafe with blueberry or just berry in the title, order muffins and coffee, also sit in silence, both looking distantly out the window, you pay $10 for it, comment on how Europe is cheaper, it begins to rain as we leave


get back to the apartment, both stall slightly realizing we are alone together, don’t know what to do so with too much urgency pick up a National Geographic. realize how skinny i’ve got when i catch my reflection in the tv, you go into the bathroom for fifteen minutes i assume you are masturbating


later, bedtime, i suck your dick but you go soft in my mouth, feel indifferent but have a slight ache, suddenly become aware of how lost i am here 3000+ away from everyone with a lanky german who thinks i show signs of being a sociopath

get up to go get ‘cigarettes’, call a ‘casual friend’ who i fucked once when you were out of town, go to his apartment two blocks away. he goes down on me and stays licking the same spot for five minutes or more, i moan with my eyes wide open, taking in his cacti and enamel cups, everything smells like Spain, it’s bare in a way i can tolerate. i shift, bored, he slides his finger inside me but he hasn’t cut his nails so it hurts. pull him up on top of me and feel for his erection, his dick is smaller than i remembered, i put him inside me and hear coins in his pocket move from the pulse of our bodies, maybe i am asexual, he comes inside me without warning and i regret not using a condom because he is slutty, don’t feel majorly worried because of the coil. he rolls over and sit up he has a pouch of fat that looks like beer fat, reminds me of my dad, feel disgusted and announce i am leaving. know he is as sad as me 
 

realize i have been gone for more than one hour and feel anxious but quickly realize you wont give a fuck, or even notice. get back and begin to make eggs. you come into the kitchen, nod. passing me to make coffee you stall, lean in, smell my hair, or my shoulder. you know. you continue you on, it’s 2:30am in green on the oven. feel hollow, indifferent. look at the calendar. ‘we’ve been together a year today’, i say, you shuffle and knock over the sugar, a minute later you leave the room without your coffee



Samantha Conlon is a 22 year old from Ireland studying for a BA in Fine Art, she specializes in Video/Photography, writing plays a major role in her working process.
Find her here: samanthaconlonart.tumblr.com

Reblogged from: twentysomethingpress
13.12.12
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