what is love?
Our backs rest quietly on the grass as we stare into the ceiling of stars spread across the universe. My fingertips are damp from the mildew covering the green straws of grass as I gently run my hands across the ground, and I can feel the cool against the back of my shirt meeting the warmth of my skin, balancing out perfectly. Like so many things in this world.
I let out a long sigh and turn my head to face you. There are tiny drops sticking to your hair, and you’re like a frozen piece of art as you stay perfectly still like a statue. Did time actually stop this time? But then your eyes close for a second and maybe the small drops in your hair are fallen tears, I see another one forming in the corner of your eye and slowly making its way down your chin. My hand automatically moves to stop it in its path, but I pause midair to observe the strangeness of gravity. I can’t stop them even if I try.
We’re stuck here together, such a fleeting constant. We come to this secret hideout every night to watch the magic of objects far out of reach, to feel together as we remain alone underneath the weight of the world. We reach down into our pockets to pull our feelings, thoughts and dreams out and pick them apart as if they were clockwork, intricate pieces that work together to tell time at our whim, a constructed concept that we all rely on for all our predictions. Then we piece them back together, so we can still be predictable and relied on once we return back home.
We bring new words and old words with us here, so we can belong and so we can distance ourselves just enough. Just like clockwork, we are forming circles. We’re a mathematical formula, fibonacci in nature, infinitely repeated when magnified.
raison d’être
The lake breaks into ripples as I dip my toe in, and in an instant everything has changed because of it.
Every time I try to wrap my head around that, my mind explodes and implodes simultaneously, like I’m trying to understand the reason, the universe and everything, but there’s nothing to grab hold of and I could just keep falling into nothingness forever except I’m not going anywhere. And nothingness doesn’t exist yet.
I remember the feeling of chasing her through these woods, reminding her how this wasn’t a game, trying to reason with her expectations of how people are. I tried being bare and honest, telling her everything upfront as an experiment caused by my experiences - I guess that’s what we keep doing to help ourselves move forward. But it didn’t work. I decided to move forward while she stayed back, and I must have left her behind.
Sometimes life was like a movie and we were the starring cast, the softness of our togetherness a comforting backstory, the dramatic clashes had no comparison, and when we tried explaining it to someone who hadn’t been watching, the words got lost in slow emotion, something that seemed so meaningful as it played out across the screen became useless words to explain feelings that couldn’t be seen. And then all that mattered were the words, and they were what weren’t enough.
I was becoming more selfish as I tried to fit my needs onto her life, it was a size too small, I pulled and tugged until the seams were ripping and her bones were exposed, until she couldn’t breathe. I never once gave her any credit for being her
So here I am, watching the lake ripple, taking in the consequences of my choices. Would I hit rewind if I could?
time
Trains pass by as if they were slow ticks and tocks, keeping time. He sits on an old cracked bench, watching them pass trying to capture the feeling of traveling wind on his face, smell the excitement and jitters from inside the carts, watching busy planning float through the lips of couples squeezing tightly together drawing lines on the maps between them.
He holds the handle of his suitcase tightly, his knuckles turned white from the strain, his fingers aching from determination. The voice of the announcer tells him “train to London departing at 3:15, all on board!” and he looks at his bare wrist.
He gets up and walks toward the narrow door, stopping a few feet away to let a woman with a stroller in first. She looks up at him as she struggles to keep her belongings gathered, her jacket sliding softly from atop her luggage. As he bends over to pick it up, his body sighs under the weight of his thoughts. She smiles apologetically and nods as she reaches for his hand, grabbing the jacket to stuff it into the bag barely resting on her shoulder. He remains in place as she loudly stumbles and huffs further into the train.
He hears the sharp whistle through the crisp air of fall, and the doors creak as they slowly close. The train gently creeps forward and is soon out of view, inside the pitch black tunnels ahead. He lets out the air he’s been holding down inside his lungs, and shuffles back to his seat of wood and iron and dreams.
little things
Maybe love is in the little things, like how I looked at the bowl and fork on the counter and smiled, assuming you’d given him a fork like you would give me a fork to have ice cream because maybe he would naturally prefer it like I do.
Or maybe it was just the closest thing you found. I won’t ever know, and how many of the little things are love?
calm waters
I always imagined myself on a boat.
I don’t know what draws me to water, the sea, but I suppose it’s one of the greatest mysteries we know. The sound of it is soothing, reminding us of our beginnings, all sounds are muffled and the loudest one is your own, gently wrapped into waves and currents like a womb. You sound far away and close at the same time, and you focus on the strange pops of air bubbles escaping your lips. Every thought is tucked into a blanket of cotton, comfortably protected. I emerge to the surface, and climb back onto the deck, and as the sun warms my skin the waves rock me into deep quiet sleep, quietly whispering lullabies from the depths below.
Then at the same time, it holds so much power, a roaring loud force, unstoppable to anything in its way. Unforgiving and brutal, it has no regard for your insignificant existence compared to everything else. It can tear you apart, and that feels familiar too. It’s the perfect analogy of life, and it is life.
Every living thing the water holds has become weathered, strong and resilient. I’ve spent hours studying the alien beings I’ve found below the surface. I went swimming among large schools of exotic fish in Bali, and I was terrified. I was an outsider in their world, and they knew every part of their surroundings. I knew nothing. I felt humble, and so out of place. A visitor in their world, trying to blend in, and they found me out. They brushed against my legs, making fun of my frail skin and insufficient physique. I wanted to be like them. Like a fish out of water, they say. Like a human in the ocean would be just as good.
So I imagine myself out there, on a boat. I have a dog named Jack, and he has a tiny red scarf and he loves swimming. We travel the world together, just the two of us. We swim and we sleep, we get our asses kicked by the rough storms and we bathe in the sun in calm waters. But you always said I couldn’t make it out there on my own.
grey / graphite
When I open the door you look like you’re surprised to see me, even though you rang the doorbell. I smile to myself, wondering how that’s even possible. You brought wine, and I find it funny that it’s a white when you should clearly know I don’t particularly like it. I guess old habits die hard.
Come in, I say and follow you into the living room. I’m always weirdly nervous the first few minutes, as if it’s the first time we meet although we’ve met about a hundred times by now. Is that a bad sign? I don’t know, and I forget as soon as I think it. And then the nervousness passes like it always does, and we’re old friends again, sitting opposite of each other in this giant couch. The only notable difference being we’re on a date now. I’m not sure how that changes anything, but I can feel that it has. Suddenly, the things we once shared openly is part of an elegant dance of avoiding subjects, and we are blatantly flirting in all the places where we once hid the desire to. It’s oddly liberating, and awkward at the same time.
We spend the night getting reacquainted, and it feels like watching a movie for the third time suddenly seeing hidden messages in the silence between conversation. There are many things I realize I haven’t even thought to ask, and it was all for the sake of protecting our frail hearts from exposure to this possibility, so afraid it might not end well. Do you want a drink, I say when you look like you’re about to decide if you should be leaving. You ask what’s on the menu, and I rummage around in the cabinets trying to find a plausible end result. Cuba libre! I exclaim happily when I find a lime in the depths of my fridge. How exotic, you say sarcastically with a raised brow.
As I gather the impressive list of ingredients, I remember my Cuban playlist and press play. I pretend to salsa with the bottle of rum pressed against my chest, and you look at me like I’m the biggest idiot in the world. Dance with me, I offer you my hand and pull you up from the couch as you accept. Our clumsy merengue will win no first prizes, as we wrestle through which one of us is in lead. I finally twirl out from our dance, grabbing a lime and splitting it in half with a graceful move and I turn around expecting to have humored you. But your face is suddenly clouded by thoughts of something else. What?
It’s always a surprise to me when we move from love to disdain, how quickly emotions can be flipped through as if it was a sketch book of running stick figures. Running, running, running, tripping, falling, falling, down. I didn’t see it coming, but once again I am confronted with a thought that had escaped me, a blatant disregard of human emotion on my part. As you share your feelings, I can feel my brain overheating, an annoyance of being misunderstood. How can it be that we have shared the same experiences, but in two different worlds? How can I have misinterpreted everything so wildly that it ended up doing the opposite of what I expected it to? I can’t help but express that, and as I do I can see the clouds on your face shifting to storms.
Your voice grew louder, and suddenly we find ourselves in a war of words, arguing who’s entitled to feel worse. I’m pressed into a corner, and when I feel like I can’t escape I shut myself down - I can hear myself inaudible, my face turns from animated to stone, closing off any attempt to jab, turning your loud words into muffled mutterings while I disappear into my head. It takes a few moments for you to realize I’ve left and when you do, you’re livid. You growl, you yell, you pull at my arm and you shake me by the shoulders. You pick up your glass of wine and throw it at the wall above my head, pieces shattering and drops of liquid showering my skin as I remain still like a statue. I’m watching you from behind my wall, trying to figure out how to tear it down but I’m stuck. I feel a sensation of panic as I realize you’re about to break into pieces, and I want to touch your hand, I want to calm the storm but I’m frozen. You stop and look at me with such sad eyes I’m afraid we’ll drown. Then you turn and walk out of the room, I can hear you put your jacket on and curse under your breath as you open the door and walk away. And I am relieved that you won’t have to stay.
I ring your doorbell and stare at the floor. The smallest part of me hoping you won't open it. I question why I'm here, why I can't stop coming back.
I'm bringing white wine as a joke and assume it will get lost on you.
You open the door and my heart beats faster. I'm surprised at how little emotion you show, you face is blank but you say all the right words. I wonder if you forgot we had plans tonight.
You invite me in and I walk through to the open livingroom. I feel you following me as I look for a place to sit, hoping wherever I choose, it's not your favourite spot. I don't know why this matters. I guess I don't want to disrupt whatever you need to be comfortable.
So I walk around looking and pointing at things on the walls until you choose where to sit first.
Within minutes, we've fallen into conversation. Words flow too quickly out of your mouth as if you've thrown away the filter. Some opinions seem more like opinions you want to have rather than feel, but there is something very real and familiar inside you. I can't put a label on it but I feel it too. Why don't we ever talk about that? Are we afraid we wouldn't survive it? Would it shatter the illusion or just kill the mood for a moment?
I'm beyond relieved when you disrupt my spiraling thought train by offering me a drink. Of course I want a drink. "What's on the menu?" I ask.
"Cuba Libre!" You exclaim as you rummage through your fridge. I'm surprised you manage to find a lime between the dozens of perfectly accounted for beverages lining the shelves.
I gladly welcome the opportunity to stop thinking now as you attempt to salsa with the bottle of rum. Cuban music fills the space around us and my heart swells. "Dance with me," you say as you offer me your hand.
We're unaware of ourselves as we dance around the room. You pull me closer and I willingly fall into to you. The room blurs as you spin me around and around. I'm dizzy now and losing my balance. I anticipate to feel your hands catch me but instead, I feel your nails dig into my back.
You spin gracefully away, seemingly unaware or unconcerned. You focus on splitting the lime as I stand there waiting to understand what just happened.
"Why did you do that?" I ask.
"Do what?" You reply, as you turn to face me with a confusing and proud smile.
"Why did you dig your nails down my back?"
"I didn't. You did that."
"What?" My voice is louder now with impatience. "What is happening?"
"I don't know. You're being ridiculous and accusing me of something I didn't do and it's hurtful."
It suddenly seems like there is a stranger in the room. Waves of anger and sympathy overwhelm me and I don't know which one is more appropriate to act on. I look at you, desperate to understand. I see my anger reflected in your eyes. "Talk to me!" I yell. But you've already left. You don't hear me anymore.
It wasn't me looking for an emergency exit, it was you, showing me the door. You never even gave me a chance.
linger
We sit by the crackling fire we’ve built with our own hands. I’ve found a few extra pieces of wood, and chuck them into the flames trying to keep the fire going but it’s the last bits of wood I could find for tonight. I am scared of what will happen when the fire slowly dies down, but for now we’re still kept warm.
We’ve been out here for a substantial amount of time, trying to survive. I remember the day we arrived, just lost for a short moment running wildly through thick brush and branches. We found sticks that resembled a cat and a dog and a sheep, we built them into a small farmhouse and gathered other sticks and leaves for a roof. You made up stories about where they had lived before you saved them, your eyes glittering enthusiastically in the soft rays of sunlight glimmering through the canopy. You named them carefully by personality and grace, and they grew into a vast collection of belongings that wouldn’t be packed.
We drew pictures in the dirt every Sunday as gifts for each other. They were snapshots of what used to be, our lives and tales of people we still hadn’t met. We’d create games to entertain us into the late hours of night; keeping the shadows cast from our silhouettes at bay.
You made drums from a rusty kettle and found some sticks to make a beat, and I whistled into short pieces of grass, we’d make the awkward sounds resemble love songs we’d imagine from the words we had shared. When the moon came out, we danced to the remainder of the melodies making our way down to the lake for a midnight swim. When the sun rised we would lay in the middle of the clearing, laughing at nothing as you held my hand.
We grew used to our surroundings, we built a small treehouse leaning into the lower branches of a large tree and decorated its interior with all our creations We made crayons from coal to make pieces of art on the walls, and we would find plants to braid into rugs and funny-looking curtains We made these woods into our home.
One morning with particularly heavy rain, you asked me if it was time to leave now. I pretended not to hear, I got up and said I’d take our cups down to the lake to fill them like I did every morning. The rain felt like it would pierce my skin as I walked down the path we’d trampled down so many nights and days, and my hands trembled as I pushed the cups down below the surface. When I got back, you sat on your knees by the wall drawing again and we stayed.
Are you leaving in the morning, I say more than I ask. You look at me in silence like you have so many times before; but this time I can hear you. I pick up a stick and poke at the last fews logs, bits of ashes spiraling up into the starlit skies above me. This place is so beautiful, and so lonely. I try to think of something to say, but I can’t. So I put the stick back down, and sit next to you, my head on your shoulder. I’m leaving tonight, you finally say and get up. The last smouldering pieces of the bonfire about to die out, and I let them.
meanwhile
Clarence walked around to the front of the car and jumped up on the hood. You know, it’s so like you to answer a question several years after I asked it, I said mockingly.
Then I bet you’re glad you’re still around to hear it, she replied without flinching. I kicked her shoe and laughed, although the topic was quite serious. But she was right, I was glad. We’d been on this spontaneous road trip for just shy of a week now, and it all began with a sullen argument over some misplaced towel. We had decided a few months prior to solve any difference with an act of spontaneity. The first suggestion would be the rule to follow. It would almost turn into a game, a distraction of sorts and an ideal opportunity to clear the air of lingering disputes.
This particular event had always made me feel so stupid, like I was completely missing the point of something I should understand. And the simplest way to try, was to ask what happened - but it would result in an impressive ability to avoid the subject. I was a bullet and she was an agent in The Matrix, dodging in slow motion while I was dumbfounded by how the world was nothing like I had always imagined it. So I had stopped asking, and as time went by, it seemed like another misstep.
I guess what I still don’t know is exactly how it happened, I say, jumping onto the hood with her. The weight of us made the thin metal sway slightly, making a deep sound of uncomfort. It reflected how I felt, almost like I didn’t want to know. I think I was just too scared to hear the answer. And maybe she knew, cause she didn’t speak. She just stared at her hands in her lap, fidgeting with the keys. I wanted to grab every bit of why and throw it into the vast field behind us. I wanted to make sure it would leave and never come back, although I knew that wasn’t possible for me to do. At the same time I felt like it was her moment to keep, as if I wasn’t supposed to feel any ownership to the choice of whether or not she should have experienced it.
So I just move my hand closer to hers, resting it on her thigh. She lets her index finger trace my heart line, and as she made her way toward the top of my palm I let our fingers intertwine. Her hands are cold and mine are on fire.
I just wanted her to know how strong I think she is. How proud I was of her for coming up above water, how she had done what I could never do. How her thoughts have meant so much to me any time she shared them, and that her perspective is unique, both then and now. It’s a rare thing to move someone the way she moves me.
We sit in silence for a little while longer while the car stereo plays terrible country music, lonesome nights and a dead dog named Ted, and I eventually ask if we should go back home.
trails
Warm water runs down my face, my arms, my legs. I try to imagine all my thoughts running down the drain with it, erasing everything I’ve let out over the past few days. I want to undo, I want to regret them, but I can’t.
Do you remember the soft summer wrap around us, its air breathing down our necks as we walked together through the downtown lights and nothing mattered except the night we were in? How easy it would have been to speak freely, but somehow we were muted by our fears and pride. I spoke of the books I read with great passion, and the places I wanted to go making loud plans, I held my head high and pretended to be strong but when I closed the door behind me night after night I’d still end up on the floor of my bedroom, the same silent tears lulling me to sleep. That’s my constant.
Someone should have come to get you, I hear her say and these words grow ever louder as I try to find out how this should have ended. I try to imagine what that would look like, I try to figure out why that never seemed like an option to me. I was stuck in a nightmare, and I didn’t even know it wasn’t supposed to be like that. Not until she said those words out loud, and now all I can do is wonder why she didn’t. Why no one came to get me. Those days came and went, and taught me something I want to unlearn.
I’ve tried to tell you everything I know, but I guess the words come out wrong. Or maybe there are no right words for this, and we both know it. So let’s sit quietly for a few moments and imagine a place where none of this ever happened. Let’s rewind, and pretend like we don’t exist, we can erase all the meaningless nonsense we’ve discussed, and all the meaningful mutters of truth in between, let’s remove the bouts of anger and frustration, while we forget the short moments of sincerity we’ve shared. Then I walk backwards out your door, and down the hallway, the elevator doors open and I step inside, when they close I was never here.
constant
You’re writing a story you don’t want to write. You’re reluctant to even put the pen to paper, yet you’re unable to stop. The words and the thoughts consume you, and there’s no where else to go but these blank pages. In the end, they’re not what matters most. In the end, they’re an outlet for your mixed emotions and you’ll soon forget them.
You’ll forget about the pages, and the feeling you had when you tried to explain. They’ll be a faded memory some day, when you sit on your porch in the sunset, thinking back on your life and the places you went, the choices you made and the memories you have created. It will be a fond memory, kind of like how your house used to smell Sunday morning when your father would be in the kitchen making eggs and bacon and you can still remember how the scent of coffee was intriguing but whenever he offered you some you’d wrinkle your nose and shake your head remembering the bitterness of the last time you tasted it.
You’ll forget it even mattered, how you had this sense of urgency trying to stack your words in the perfect way, so that they would make sense. So that they wouldn’t fall over.
What will matter is the way she looked on your wedding day, not her dress or her hair. Not her makeup or the shoes she chose, but how her face lit up when your hands joined together and you were taking the first leap of many. Maybe you thought it wouldn’t be something you’d remember so clearly, but nothing could compare to that trust. Except for the memory of her paint stained hands as she rolled that last bit of paint onto the walls of the room your first child would hopefully sleep in. How you both discussed what color would be most soothing, or maybe there should be a mural with colorful scenery behind their crib. And you remember how she was so strong when you weren’t, and the sound of a brand new person taking their first few breaths of air and the smell of their skin when you held them night after sleepless night, your eyes struggling to stay open. You will remember how she would kiss every little scratched up knee and bruised elbow, she would sneak into their rooms and stroke their hair in the middle of the night just to have one more minute with them, and she’d crawl back into your bed telling you how grateful she was with teary eyes squeezing your hand as she fell asleep.
You will remember so many things, and you will treasure all of them for what they made you experience, how they made you feel and how they changed you. No single moment defining who you are, but all of these bits and pieces doing their part.
And so here you are, slowly rocking while the last bit of sun warms your skin, that day playing back in your head and you smile wondering what might have been. But you have no regrets. A car pulls up in front of the house and there he is, the love of your life and his small blueprint copies chasing one another out from the backseat and soon crashing into your lap. Grammy! You place each of your hands on top of their heads and ruffle their hair. They kiss your cheek and run inside to see her - she made their favorite for supper and you can see every piece of her in everything you love.
love letters
The words fall out of my mouth like heavy rain in summer, slightly uncomfortable, like an unexpected nuisance but still warm and soft in a way.
When they’re left unrequited I search for probable cause, I want to believe that we’re here in the same boat about to sink, but there’s unforgiving silence instead. I’m left alone with my love notes, trying to figure out what it is I meant. And I don’t know.
If these things made sense, it would be easier to follow my train of thought back to the woods I grew up in, where all I really intended to find was a small hand to hold. One that would always hold mine, and would run with me between old pine trees pretending to be the fox to my squirrel, studying the slight movements of wildlife as we made it our own little secret.
Things were easier then, we never questioned our motives, we were just there hiding under the branches as the other kids passed by, they’d never find us here. We held our breath until they were out of sight and I told you I brought another secret to share. You stared at me with wide eyes while I pulled my bag of chips out from the bushes and you were just as excited as I was to loudly reveal our location.
window
From where I stand, I can see the curve of your neck as you’re hunched over something at your kitchen table, your brows furrowed, concentrating deeply on the task at hand. I am familiar with the stray strands of hair curling at the bottom of your hairline, and I want to reach out and touch them. I watch you from afar for a few minutes, trying to decide.
Then suddenly she appears behind you, you look up and smile briefly. She walks over to you and rests her hand on your shoulder, her lips forming a question. You answer, still looking down, your hands gesticulating in the air and at the end of the sentence you laugh and look back up at her. She smiles, I imagine this is what mundane love looks like.
She turns away from you and picks something up from the floor, starts placing items into the wall. I realize she’s putting away the groceries she has been out buying. I didn’t even notice her driving by, but I’ve tried imagining what she would look like many times and I’m not even remotely close. I should leave, but my feet are heavy and stick to the ground, I don’t know why I want to stay.
When she’s finished, she starts pulling pots and pans out from cabinets and she disappears and reappears in the window sill, words dancing between you and laughter bouncing off the walls. I wanted to unmute and turn the volume up, curious about your conversational topics on this ordinary Wednesday afternoon. Finally she brings you a plate and you put away whatever you’re doing. As the daylight starts fading, I watch you have dinner together in a small lit up square.
Afterwards you stand up and clear the table, disappearing from view. She follows you, and I’m left staring at the empty window. My arm has tiny goosebumps, I hadn’t noticed that it got chilly.
I try to imagine you behind the walls of your house. She lights candles on the shelves, and a record spins on the LP-player, music from an old album you both like filling the room. You sit in the corner of your couch with a blanket over your feet reading a book and she comes over to sit next to you. Her fingers habitually tracing your hand while she reads through her newsfeed. Eventually she lifts your arm and puts her head in your lap. Your fingers play with her hair as you ask if she wants to hear the next chapter. She nods sleepily, and you read about the man with tattoos in his palms, he doesn’t speak but the woman still falls in love with him based entirely on “yes” on his left hand, and “no” on his right.
You yawn and close the book, gently nudging her shoulder to wake her up. She folds your blanket while you put the book back in its place, and then you take her hand and lead her to the bedroom. The light flicks off in my little square and I lean against the tree closing my eyes.
credits
I followed her into the streets, barefoot. I waited too long and now I can’t see her, not to the left and not to the right.
Heavy rain pours from dark grey clouds onto the black asphalt, exploding into tiny fountains as they hit the ground. In seconds I’m soaked, shivering intensely, water running from my hair down into my eyes making it even harder to see. Streams gather in the contours of my face, small rivers mixing with salty tears as a choked sound of despair escape my lips.
Suddenly I notice a small shape in the distance, leaning against the building on the corner with her arms wrapped around her tightly. I take a deep breath and try to pull my wet hair back from my face. Suddenly my resolve is wavering, as I shakily start walking toward her.
She didn’t notice me until I was stood right in front of her, so close I could feel the heat escaping her skin almost visibly evaporating.
I touched the back of her hand, and she stared into my eyes, her face wet from rain, dripping from her heart shaped lips. I slowly leaned closer, my lips touching hers only slightly. My breath heavier now, every bottled up feeling bubbling up to the surface. She didn’t move at first, just waited quietly as her eyes closed. Then I kissed her. Softly, then greedily, our bodies melted into each other as the rain washed away every accusatory word and testing doubt left.
Fade to black.
The credits are rolling and I forgot to watch the ending.
words
He combed through all the boxes that held her words, big ones and small ones flowing like rivers up and down pages and like a river pulling with it anything in its path, downward, downward all the way to nowhere.
He thought they’d be endless, as if there would always be words left to say, even when there weren’t really any words at all. Where one sentence ended, the next started seamlessly and with no limitations. It may have been difficult to see then, that words speak louder than actions, although isn’t it the other way around?
The largest words were saved for last and then followed by an utter silence. That had happened before, long pauses and large voids but with an agreement that there’d always be words yet to come.
Somewhere along the way he gathered all the letters, along with rocks and feathers, a love note from strangers and a handprint, tore them to pieces, crossing words out with a thick black pen. Going through them now, large bits and pieces were missing, a jigsaw puzzle you could never complete. His mind scrambled trying to fill in the blanks, but somehow everything had been erased years ago. Maybe it was for the best. These pieces of memories long lost were witness to more than words ever could be. He never told her how angry he used to be. How much she let him down. How he longed for her to tell him the truth. Did she string him along all those years? Was it all just a game?
By the end of the story he had finally come clean. Revealed all of his shortcomings and how he wanted the story to end. And all he was left with were these torn pages, fragmented promises and a dirty feather that had once seemed meaningful.
1G5G
What’s your most memorable kiss?
These questions were supposed to be on the verge of inappropriate, but in this moment nothing was harder to answer than that one.
Oh, did you just make that one up?
She laughed to avert attention away from her burning cheeks, and asked for another shot to buy some time.
Well, they’re just questions from the actual show you know - I didn’t pick them.
She wished these nights could last forever. Every time she walked through this door, she let her guard down and wiped all of her slates clean. It was as if walking into an alternate reality where nothing existed but this tiny room and nothing would remain unsaid. Maybe the degree of importance wasn’t a priority, and maybe that was the whole reason it felt good.
But for some reason, this felt too revealing. Would something be broken if the answer was you?
weeds
“Images stuck in your head”
The bathroom in this bar is particularly dirty, like the ones you see in a movie. Tissues cluttering the floor and the smell is unbearable but I followed you in here to have a moment alone with you. There’s a strange hollow in the wall where you place your half-full bottle of vodka and by the way you’re swaying I can only assume it was full at the beginning of this night.
But still, when you ask if I want some I accept. You grab it from the sill and help yourself to a sip before handing it to me, standing inappropriately close to someone you don’t know. I can smell your hair and your breath and without realizing it I’m leaning into you. Your cheek slightly touches mine and you laugh a laugh that belongs to you - my heart flutters.
“Drink up, baby, look at the stars”
The stale summer air is stifling as I pick up the cue and aim for the blue ball. Finally you appear, walking down the long stairs to this enormous empty space. I try to act like I haven’t been waiting, like my night wasn’t depending on whether or not you’d show up. Suave.
As we move on to bowling, I grasp every opportunity to brush past you, breathing you in. Your scent, your soft skin, I can’t help but to reach out and slightly touch your hand as I pass you by when my turn is up. It’s like an intricate dance we’ve secretly rehearsed all spring, synchronized and always just out of reach.
I walk you home, and our words are muffled imitations of conversation. I can’t concentrate on anything but placing one foot in front of the other and when we reach your door all to sudden I pull you into a hug that lasts for too long.
“Drink up one more time”
Your face is lit up by an ambulance passing by several floors below us. On your balcony we take a short break from deep conversation, looking out at the city lights. I try to create a snapshot of your face, all the lines and features, the way your lips move as you ask if I want to go back inside. Your smile, your dimples, how your hair falls into your eyes when you look down noticing I’m staring at you.
Sometimes I can still remember how you used to look, but it seems like a dream now. Just as clearly, I can remember standing outside your building with my insides on fire and warm tears running down my face. The way you would change from hot to cold in seconds, leaving me lost and bewildered trying to find my way home.
I take several breaths of air and start walking down the street, determined to not look back. Determined to not let these questions stay on my mind and in my heart. But I fall, and my pants tear at the knee and I have bruises on my hands and I don’t know where I’m going.
slumber
She came up with a terrible excuse to leave the party early. It had already become slightly unbearable when Robert arrived and insisted on following her around all night only to hit peak awkwardness with a romantic lift during a conversation about a date they had in the early days of their relationship.
As she walked out the door, taking a deep breath of rainy air, she realized she’d already had ulterior motives in the back of her mind. Three blocks away. Her shoe shoved a tiny rock back and forth as she considered sending a text.
“Hey. Are you up? ”
Delete.
“I’m in the neighborhood. Wanna hang out?”
Delete.
“Hey.”
Send. She exhaled, and retrieved a cigarette from her bag. Her hands shook as she lit it, and waited for a few moments.
Nah. Forget it. It’s late and it’s a work night, just go-
“Hey girl. What’s up?”
Damnit.
“So I just left a party and I’m on your street. Busy?”
She didn’t even know this guy. Last time they met, he kept asking stupid questions and laughing out loud as if he’d made a joke except he hadn’t
“I’m home. Wanna stop by?”
Ugh. She already regretted the text. But then again. Maybe it would be interesting. She could just grab a few drinks and stop by for an hour. What time is it? Ten fifteen. Alright.
She stopped at the dep for another pack of cigarettes and a couple of beers. Does he even like beer? Who doesn’t like beer? Shuffled back outside and two minutes later she was outside his building.
“bzzzzzzzz.”
The elevator ride up was incredibly long, plenty of time to change her mind back and forth a few more times before she found herself knocking on his door. He was wearing baggy jeans with holes in them, and his t-shirt was all torn up. She could swear he looked like he just finished painting his room, paint stained and ruffled hair.
He smiled a big stupid smile and she could feel its contagious effect all over.
“Hi.”
He didn’t really invite her in at first, which was weird and nice. They stood right there in the doorway talking about their night and week and life and then he asked if she wanted to meet his sister as a lanky girl walked by behind him. Then he asked her to come in and see his room.
She got why he hadn’t invited her in sooner, his room looked like someone had just thrown stuff in there for months. Clothes covered every available surface, and the rest was cluttered with paint and paintings and a vast amount of stuff. Small sculptures and notebooks and a broken skateboard, one million penciles and photographs of high school friends. Multiple plastic bags for some reason. The only available place to sit down was on the edge of the bed, and she added her plastic bag with Coronas into the mix.
“Beer?”
“Yeah, but I can’t find the opener. Uhm...”
She yanked the bottle using her lighter and he was acting all impressed by it.
They talked for hours about everything and anything and nothing, all his paintings and his work and her work and she pointed at photos and he told her embarrassing stories about high school and childhood, where he grew up and it was so different than who he seemed to be. But in a good way. He asked interesting questions that had nothing to do with anything in particular leading to long discussions about not much at all. Is astrology really meaningful? Where would we live if not on earth? Would flies make good pets? What happens after we die?
When she finally decided she had to leave, he followed her to the door and suddenly no words were left to be said. He stood there with this look on his face like he was laughing out loud but he wasn’t laughing. His face was bubbly and full of energy, and she had to look down at her feet. The silence lasted for so long it became awkward.
“Okay, so...Bye. Goodnight. Yes.”
She turned to leave, but noticed he held her arm firmly, and was forced to turn back around. It was as if he leaned in to kiss her, but he didn’t. So she leaned in to kiss him. Briefly. But for so long. And then she looked back down at her feet and backed out of the apartment, turned around and walked down the hallway to the elevator, got in, doors closing. Four thirty.
“Shit.”
summer
Maybe if I passed your house frequently enough, I’d be able to get a glimpse of you through the window while you were trying to decide what to wear even though I know you’re not going anywhere. And never mind the fact that I don’t actually know where your house is exactly. I know it’s somewhere around here, so I’ll just hop off this tram and take a walk around the block a few times.
Is this your block?
Maybe if I ask you if you need anything, some juice or vitamins, maybe then you’d invite me in - never mind the fact that you don’t really know me at all.
I daydream about these unexpected meetings that we’ll have when I pass by and you wave and then I say clever things, although I’m not really sure what those things would be. But it makes me smile. And I’m not sure why.
I skip work so I can spend the afternoon nearby, I have this alibi and all I want is to see you for a minute or two even if you won’t talk to me. You sit close by and I try to remember those clever things I was supposed to say but then I never came up with anything so I look away when you smile, my cheeks burning for some reason.
We’re sat in the park pavilion, talking about life loudly and things emerge from my mouth in the attempt to impress you with my wordliness only to throw me into an internal frantic state of panic when I realise I'm lost in words.
When you disappear from the dance floor for a minute or two, I pretend that I’m not looking for you and I pretend I’m not jealous when my eyes find you in the company of someone else.
I sit down in the middle of a group of people I don’t know, talking loudly to distract myself from this need to be around you and when the night comes to an end I walk out the door and let out a little laugh in relief, I can retreat and regroup and get myself together.
“Afterparty?”
Oh.
As the city outside is melting in the summer heat, we spend the night cooling off on the floor in my living room talking about everything and anything and as the hours pass by and our words fill the room my hand accidentally touches yours and there’s a sudden quiet.
Maybe we should get some sleep.