He remembered reading-somewhere, someplace he couldn’t quite pinpoint- about an old style of tavern called a hell, normally noted as places of hang out for the dirty and the riffraff. Upon looking at his surroundings, he decided such a description well-described the place his feet had carried him to.

Run-down, dimly lit, the bar was not a place he would frequent on a normal occasion, but when the moment he had walked out the door, his first and foremost priority had been to put as much distance between himself and his apartment as humanly possible. So here he found himself, looking through the fog of hazy smoke to try and spot a free stool at the bar.

The drinks were a familiar feeling, going down smooth but burning, the amber liquid translucent in the pallid glow of the neon lights on the wall, the clink of ice against the glass a sign for him to raise his finger to the bartender for another round. His body felt heavier, languid, and a hazy feeling clouded his perception. Still, he drank.

His nostrils filling with the sickly sweet scent of a heavy floral perfume was his first warning a split second before he felt the sudden proximity of an individual, suddenly hanging off his arm and pressing against his side gave definition to a clearly female body. He lazily opened one eye to investigate.

Around his age, he supposed, as much as he could tell beneath the makeup, reasonably pretty. She smiled at him, and he was sure it would be a very nice smile if not so leering and suggestive.

“Hey, handsome,” she cooed, her voice low and sultry, “Buy me a drink.”

He was silent for a moment, and then nonchalantly but gently pulled his arm back, downing what remained of his drink in a single gulp. The alcohol was fiery all the way down, and his stomach lunged, but he was steady as he rose to his feet and shrugged into his leather coat.

“Sorry,” he said smoothly as he threw a few wrinkled yen on the rough surface of the bar, “Not interested.”

The unknown woman stared at him for a moment, and then shrugged, not looking the least bit offended as she sauntered away to find her next victim. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, his brow furrowing with disconcertion as he sighed and stepped out the back door out onto the streets.

A rush of the frigid autumn air hit him and he drew the coat tighter around himself, squinting against the sudden glare of a streetlamp as he tried to vain to spot a familiar landmark or make sense of his memories of walking there, muddled and dimmed by the rage that had taken hold of him after he stormed out of the loft.

He huffed, the rushing expanse of released breath creating a white, wispy cloud in the air that quickly dissipated into the cold. He felt oddly numb, absently reaching up to rub a cold hand against his face.

He hated to fight with her, but secrecy and fear had a way of getting to a person. Lust, desire, shame, all mixed up with in the forbidden. This was no ordinary love.

Arguments came more and more frequently, and that night’s tiff had been an explosive one, driving him out of their apartment to seek refuge at the bar and drink away his sorrows. He had never been much of a drinker, but he found himself looking for anything and everything that could numb away the pain caused by that beautiful girl who twisted and turned his heart every which way.

Finding he could barely make out the name on a nearby street sign, he kept walking when there was a vibrating at his hip. He dug out the cell phone from his pocket, flipping it open. “’lo?”

“Peter?” The voice was achingly familiar.

“Yeah.”

“Are you alright? I’m worried.”

“Yes…I’m…” he trailed off, making a face she could not see.

“…come home…please?”

He stopped as he came to a four-way stop, and he called a taxi the moment they ended the call, the sound of her voice in his head gently guiding him home.

She was waiting in the front hall as he walked through the door. She was wearing a thin robe, the hem of the old shirt, one of his, she used as nightwear peeking out from beneath. She looked strangely vulnerable, standing there, staring at him with hesitant eyes, arms wrapped around herself.

“I’m glad you’re back,” she said softly, and warm sincerity colored her tone.

Those words made all the difference.

He slowly walked toward her. They were standing at a crossroads and in the end, it was Peter that made the decision for them, leaning forward to press his lips to hers. His lips were dry and hot, a bit chapped, and he was clumsy and overly eager in his initial relief. She pressed a hand against his chest in a gesture for him to ease off and he got the message, his mouth softening against hers, hand rising to her face to gently stroke her cheek.

When they parted, she rested her forehead against his, inwardly awed by the soft, relaxed expression that had fallen over his face. His eyes had fluttered closed and he sported a small smile; she kissed the contented curve to his lips, sighed his name softly, “Peter.”

His hand reached out to grasp hers, their fingers intertwining. She smiled softly, and he kissed her hand, as she let him to their bedroom, and consequently, their bed. She lay out among the blankets, laying her head against a pillow and watching him through hooded eyes as he undressed. Peter slipped in beside her after stripping down to his boxers. She snuggled up to him, resting her head against his chest, his arms tight around her.

They fell quiet, and for a long while, all there was were the dual sounds of their breathing, eventually easing into the slow, deep patterns of slumber.