Coming Over

I’m knocking at your door. I’m standing out here in my coat, the long grey one.

Can’t you hear me? I’ve got on my black, knee-length, high heeled boots. The water drops glisten on the polish.

You must be able to. My dark hair is covered by the low hood, but it’s been blow-dried.

Come on, open up. The dark wool is itching against my chest. I’m wearing nothing else, except for the shoes. My nipples ache, from more than just the cold.

I’m listening through the letterbox. I can hear a fire crackling in the hearth. My lips are painted red, and they are hungering for you. I try not to bite down. I want to look good for you. For you.

I’ve rung the bell too, even though I know it’s been bust for months. An old habit. I’m finding it hard to wait. My fingers have slipped between the buttons, slid down, and now they’re pressing there too, even though I know it won’t be enough. I need more, but several inches of solid wood are keeping me from… that, actually.

I hear a sound, and for a moment I'm hopeful... Your garden wall is low, and the neighbour’s washing blows in the gale, and she rushes to get it down. I don’t care. The goosebumps are spreading up from my socks, which only cover up till my knees. I shift, tightening the grip of my thighs, anticipative.

I stand still now, looking into the still, white curtains behind the little glass panes. My breath steams.

I sigh. Drip.

I lean against the door. It isn't enough. I need more. I need…

I’ve banged on the door again. ...I knead my breasts, standing now against the door frame. Home is where the heart is.

Let me in. You know you want to. My eyes are smouldering within the black painted frames. A picture of predilection. I shiver.

Answer. The rain is coming down heavy, each drop thudding, each one touching an individual spot all over the surface of the driveway. Each sound is a sting while I remain pristine and unmarked.

Why are you still reading this? Get your hand out of your pants and open the door. I’m waiting… Do I hear feet?