Huffs and Puffs

He left the bowl of pancake mix and approached me, his strides deliberate and confident. I remained rooted in place, leaning against the door frame wearing his big black hoodie, basking in the warmth of his aura. His arms enveloped my waist as he got to me, drawing me into his embrace with a tenderness that spoke volumes.

"Did you sleep well?" he inquired, his voice a soothing melody that washed over me. With a soft chuckle, I responded, "When did I ever not sleep well when I'm here?" His smile, a beacon of comfort and familiarity, lit up the room as he asked if I was ready for breakfast.

Peering into his face, I couldn't help but notice the subtle shadows beneath his eyes and the faint stress lines etched into his skin, a testament to some stress and sleepless nights. My hand instinctively rose to caress his left cheek, tracing the contours of his features softly.

"Did you sleep at all? You were already up when I woke," I inquired, my words filled with concern and worry, but he shrugged off my question with a nonchalant dismissal, blaming his old companion, insomnia. Despite his assurances, a pang of unease clawed at the edges of my consciousness, and in hindsight, I should have insisted,  asked more questions and even demanded answers, but I trusted blindly and that same trust landed me in jail.

Pulling me into the kitchen, he effortlessly lifted me onto the counter, where I sat as he worked on breakfast. I offered entertainment while he worked in terms of conversation and kisses in between.

After we were done frying the pancakes, and since we had already eaten most of them while they were hot, resulting in burnt tongues, we moved into the living room to enjoy whatever was left of our breakfast. As I settled into the chair, I noticed that he had turned on some music. He walked towards me and pulled me to my feet as we began to twirl round and round and round again for some time.

We were a perfect fit, our bodies in sync feeling each move and sensation. This went on for a bit until an interesting thought popped into my head. I pulled back and sat on the couch, demanding that he put on a strip show for me. After I made my request, his eyes darkened. With raised brows, he sashayed a little away from me and with one swift motion, he pulled off the apron from across his chest leaving just his bare chest and shorts. He began to move around slowly, holding my gaze. He suddenly lifted up one of his legs and placed them on the table in front of him, slowly bending down and running both his hands over them from the bottom back up slowly. 

The triggered a scream from me after which followed a whistle like an old man watching young maidens with full breasts walk by. Then suddenly he started to wave his hands violently like cheerleaders with pom-poms which made me laugh so much. He moved right in front of me, whining his waist slowly from side to side and front to back. At this point I covered my eyes with my hands and giggled into them. He took my hands off my eyes and placed them on his waist.

Tears trickled down my cheeks, as a faint smile graced my face while I lay in the infirmary, wrapped in bandages, staring at the ceiling. Attempting to laugh only resulted in strained huffs and puffs, akin to a struggling car with faulty injectors trying to start but falling and puffing out black smoke from its exhaust pipes. Each burst of chortle caused sharp pains to shoot through my body.

In that moment, despite my near-mummified state, I found myself chortling painfully at the flood of memories we shared. It was as if the room held echoes of our laughter, mingling with the antiseptic scent of the infirmary.

Each breath I took felt like a battle, but amidst the discomfort and laughter at my own silliness, I couldn't help but reflect on the young and pure love, now lost in a maze of deception and hurt. Despite the passing years, it seemed one could still find themselves entangled in memories of a time when hearts were pure and trust was unwavering. Immersed in my own thoughts, I didn't notice the presence of the Doctor whose name I didn't want to know.

He sat quietly at the corner, so still as if not to make a sound to disturb me from my musings. I wondered how long he had been there or how long I had been lost, drifting in my own bittersweet memory. "Are you going to say something?" I asked him. "Well, the last time I spoke, you didn't seem very keen on responding, so I'm just sitting here and minding my business," he retorted. "Well, the name is Brenda and I'm in here for Murder."