A is for Attached

A prequel of Whitmore’s last relationship before he met Jessica. Originally posted for the A to Z Challenge April 1, 2015.

It was New Year’s Eve, and Whitmore was sitting up in a cold hotel bed with a bottle of flat champagne next to him, calling his girlfriend Layla for the fifteenth straight time.

The ball had already dropped, lights and confetti exploding around the illuminated numbers, 2014. All of the televised parties and concerts had gone off the air an hour ago. He was watching MTV count down the best music videos of 2013. He cupped his crotch, and hoped the half-naked women dancing across the television screen would ease the tension in his groin.

His pants were half way down when he heard a knock on the door. It was Layla.

“Where the hell have you been?”

Layla brushed by him and sat on the bed. She had a slight limp in her gait. She took her phone from her purse and began to scroll through the missed calls. “If I don’t answer after the first time, or the second time, or the third, or the goddamn twenty-third, why do you continue calling!”

Whitmore slammed the door. “We had plans, Layla. We were going to spend New Year’s together here.”

“At some shoddy hotel, drinking cheap-ass wine.” She flicked the bottle onto the floor. It rolled underneath the bed.

“Champagne,” Whitmore corrected.

“Whatever.” Layla stood and ran her fingers through her hair. “It’s freaking New Year’s, Whitmore. I don’t wanna stay cooped up inside. I want to go out. Party. Take some shots. Bring in the new year with my friends.”

Whitmore cocked his head to the side. “So you don’t want to spend time with me? You don’t love me?”

“Why do you always go from one extreme to the next, Whitmore? You can come with, or you can hang with your friends.” There was a sarcastic tone in her voice. She curled her lip and snickered. They both knew his only friend was his girlfriend, much to the vexation of Layla. “I mean, I just feel like you always wanna keep me to yourself. I do have a life.”

Whitmore scratched the stubble on his chin and folded his arms across his chest. “So why is your shirt inside out? Why are your pants unbuttoned? Why is your belt only through two loops? Why do you smell like Old Spice?” he asked circling, inspecting her.

“What are you getting at?”

“Who you been with?”

Layla picked up her purse and walked to the door. “If I’m gonna get interrogated, I’m leaving.”

She was gone before he could protest. He found himself alone on the bed once again watching raunchy music videos and contemplating masturbation. He shuffled out of his pants and boxers.

He was losing Layla. He could feel her slowly pulling away. He saw how she’d flirted with the waiter on their last date. Just the night before, he’d found pictures of men naked from the waist down in her phone. She’d been texting someone named Roc for the past month. She had one foot out the door, and he needed to act quickly to ensure that she would stay with him forever.

The idea came to him as he spilled onto the white bed sheets and fell limp. No more pulling out while they made love. He would get her pregnant.


SoCS: Breaking the Attachment

Jessica had her second nervous breakdown last night. The first came when Whitmore told her he didn’t put on a condom and she might be pregnant. Thankfully, her period came three days later. The second nervous breakdown came when he asked her to move in with him and she practically scratched the skin off her forehead.

Instead of checking her into the hospital, Whitmore took her back to his house. He undressed her, tucked her into his bed, and clipped her fingernails. He placed a cool damp washcloth on her bruised, red forehead. Then he took off his clothes, got in the bed with her, and kissed every inch of her body as she slept.

When Jessica woke the next morning, she didn’t know where she was. She didn’t recognize the beige colored walls, the ebony dresser or the flat screen TV on top of it, the queen-sized bed she was lying in—the only other furniture in the room—or the lone window, missing curtains or blinds. Whitmore was lying on top of her, his head resting on her breasts. It was then that she realized she was in his bedroom. She wiggled from underneath him, hoping not to wake him. She was completely naked, and she worried he might have done something to her while she was out. She didn’t think Whitmore was that delusional but she believed he was smitten enough to try something.

She searched the room for her clothes. The room was empty. The floor void even of lent or a tuft of public hair. She gave up looking and moved for the dresser. She didn’t want to still be there when Whitmore woke up. He would try everything in his power to keep her. She could already hear his excuses…

I’m washing your clothes. Wait for them to dry before you leave.

You’re not well. You fainted at the restaurant. Let me cook you something.

You look so sexy. Don’t put on your clothes. Get back in the bed. I love you.

Jessica put on the first article of clothing she saw: basketball shorts and and t-shirt. She didn’t care that it might have been freezing outside—it was still in the dead of winter—she was dressed enough to catch the city bus back to her apartment. She retrieved three dollars from Whitmore’s wallet and put it back on the dresser, then tiptoed out of the room. In the living room, she found her clothes folded on the couch. On top of them were her flats and her purse. She gathered the jeans, sweater and purse, and put on her shoes.

As she carefully opened the front door, making as little noise as possible, she searched her mind for ways to rid herself of this attachment. Whitmore had become too clingy, too needy, and she couldn’t take it anymore. It was only after she closed the door behind her and walked down the pathway to the street that she realized it was Valentine’s Day.


This is part of Stream of Consciousness Saturday & Love Is In Da Blog. The prompt: attach/attachment.


Read more of Whitmore and Jessica here and here. The posts aren’t in any order as far as a plot line goes, just working on sketching my characters.