Page 22 of Dirty Lyrics
He’s right.
I was going to ask a question.
But I can wait.
I don’t really have a choice.
chapter 8-rico
I leave Chuy at the door and close it behind us, shutting out the world.
It’s just us now.
Just me. Just her.
Maya. My wife.
The tension is so thick I can fucking taste it. It’s in the air, in my lungs, in the way every muscle in my body goes tight the second she steps across the threshold.
My Songbird.
My heart clenches so hard it hurts. It’s been too long since she’s been here. Weeks. Months. Long, empty, hollow months.
Truth? This place hasn’t felt like home since the night she left. The walls echoed, the air was cold, even the music in my head turned flat.
But she’s here now.
I close my eyes for a second and just breathe her in. She smells like fresh summer rain and ripe peaches, sweet and alive, and mine.
When I open my eyes, I catch the way hers dart around the room. She sees it immediately—the counter.
The roll of mints she always carried, half empty now but sitting right where she left it.
And beside it, the silly crocheted sunflower in a tiny clay pot she bought me from some sidewalk vendor the day we played tourist.
Her little gasp slices me open.
I take a step toward her. Slow. Measured.
Like a monster stalking prey.
Because that’s what I am right now—starving, restless, aching.
Months without her soft, sweet body have left me feral.
“Ask your question,” I rasp, my voice lower than I intend.
I’m on tenterhooks, waiting for her to turn and face me.
Her lips part, trembling.
“W-why do you still have that?” Maya whispers, nodding at the sunflower.
“You gave it to me.”
My answer is simple, but it’s the truth. There was never a chance in hell I’d throw it away.
She swallows.
