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All Shook Down
by Nicola
Rating: PG-13
1987
Lily awoke to the sound of the coffee grinder. Since she had never once, in the seven months that she had lived in her apartment, made her own coffee, this was cause for confusion. She cracked open an eye and then wished she hadn't, because she was blinded by the sunshine that streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. She rolled over to avoid the light, but that only aggravated her hangover. She let out a low moan and clamped a hand to her head, hoping to crush the pain with her fingertips.
"Good morning, sunshine," a voice said.
The light in the room was still too bright, so Lily could only use slitted eyes to look in the direction of the voice. The guy who stood before her was dark-haired, stubbled and the only thing he wore was the length of leather cord looped around his neck. She recalled vaguely the image of licking the curve of his neck, her teeth nipping at the leather as his body rose above her.
"I made coffee," he said and dumped a mug of freshly-brewed coffee on the nightstand.
Although the memory of how he looked when he came was filtering back to her, she realized she couldn't remember his name.
"It's Rufus," he said, as if reading her mind.
"I knew that," she muttered.
He grinned. "Sure you did."
She reached over and grabbed the cup of coffee. She wasn't sure she liked his attitude – he was entirely too chipper for (she checked the clock) ten a.m. – but the coffee smelled too good to resist. She took two long swallows from the mug. It tasted pretty good, too. She drank some more and felt the caffeine enter her bloodstream. It tasted very good, in fact. Maybe even better than the takeout stuff she bought each morning.
"I bet you don't remember my name," she said, once the caffeine had effectively reconnected her mouth to her brain.
"I do," he said. "It's Lily. You're a photographer. You grew up in Manhattan. You hate it, but you say you couldn't live anywhere else. You like Joni Mitchell and The Replacements. You think hair metal is dumb, so I guess it's a good thing I decided not to grow my hair long. You have a tattoo of a butterfly on your shoulder blade which you got while you were high on LSD. You have a birth mark on your inner thigh. Last night I made you come twice and I think I'd like to try for a third sometime. Maybe find that birth mark again. You seemed to like it when I kissed it."
He delivered the information matter-of-factly, with a slight smile on his face. She felt her stomach jolt.
"I feel sick," she said.
"You really know how to make a guy feel good about himself."
"Seriously, I think I'm gonna throw up." She brought her knees up to her chest, resting her forehead in the gap between her knees.
He walked to the kitchen and grabbed a saucepan (pristine, never used), which he handed it to her. "Here, use this." He rocked back on his heels, watching her. "Man, this is romantic. Our first morning together. Stories to tell our grandchildren."
Lily leaned over the saucepan, but the nausea seemed to have passed. She looked up at the guy and wondered why he was still there. If she was honest, she preferred the unkempt guitarists she picked up to stay nameless and be gone before she woke up. This one didn't seem to be going anywhere.
"Don't feel like you have to stick around," she said, hoping he'd get the hint.
"I was gonna make you breakfast," he said.
"I don't eat breakfast," she said. It was the truth. She'd gained three pounds last month and she didn't like the way her hips looked.
"So maybe I'll just make some more coffee," he said.
Lily blinked rapidly, struggling to isolate her thoughts and form words. "I think I'm just gonna go back to sleep," she said. "You can leave," she added firmly.
"Nahhh, I'll stick around." He paused, apparently reading her expression. "Don't worry, if I wanted to loot the place, I'd have done it already."
"How did you—?" she said, before she realized he was joking.
He burst out laughing. "Wait, you mean that's actually happened to you? This is a nice place, but I wasn't planning on robbing you. Good to know what an illustrious list of suitors you have, though. I'm in good company. Are you sleeping with the Unabomber, too?"
Lily couldn't help but laugh, although her throat was so dry that it sounded like a rasp.
"I'll get you some water," he said, moving to the kitchen to fill a glass.
Reluctantly, she accepted the water. "You can leave now," she said again.
"You seem pretty adamant on that point. Maybe I should take a hint." He reached over and pushed a lock of hair off her forehead; a single gesture before he retracted his hand. "Too bad. There are worse ways to spend the day than watching a pretty girl sleep."
Despite the water, her voice still sounded hoarse when she said, "You watched me sleep?"
"Yeah. You look like an angel." He paused. "But you drool a lot. So… a drooling angel."
"Not funny," she said, but she was smiling.
She burrowed deep under the covers, still clutching the saucepan with one hand, just in case. She watched him dress. He pulled on threadbare jeans and an equally ratty t-shirt. No underwear. Figures. She felt sleep encroaching. Her thoughts were unravelling. He wasn't bad looking, she thought vaguely. He thought he was funnier than he actually was, but that was a forgivable character flaw. Of course, his other character flaw was that he genuinely seemed to like her. That was much less forgivable.
"I left my number on the counter," he said. "So call me." He shrugged a leather jacket onto his shoulders and opened her apartment door. "I'll see you around, Lily."
"I'll see you around," she murmured in reply.
"And what's my name?"
She rolled her eyes. "Rufus."
"Glad we've got that straight."
He – Rufus – closed the door behind him, leaving her apartment to its usual silence. She drifted slowly into sleep, thoughts skimming the surface of her brain. She wouldn't call, of course. Guitarists were for fucking, not dating. That's just the way things were.
December 2007
Note: Title from The Replacements.
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