That night you could have drawn my outline in chalk on my driveway from sheer memory, and later when I'd walk by, my shadow would align inside of it perfectly. We were so close then, curled together on the fake plastic couch inside McDonald's. You held my hand and I tried to remember the first time our hands intertwined. Was it at work? In my car? Your bed? I concluded that it didn't matter much and we stood up, still holding hands, and headed out towards my car.
It was an emotionally strange night for the both of us. We had just broken up (the first of three times) and somehow this compelled you to tell me about each scar on your body, systematically. You talked about your father, the time he torched your house because he was still mad that your mother divorced him. You didn't seem angry and you didn't blame him. Perhaps you'd do the same thing if I stopped loving you. Then you took my hand and smiled and said, "and you? You must have stories..." but it felt like the wrong time to show you all my scars. You had just broken up with me, afterall.
I never even told you about the tattoo on my ribcage, perhaps the most obvious of scars, but then again you never asked. Sometimes I felt hurt by this, but mostly I was relieved. I've never been good at talking about myself, and when I think about that time in my life, I see it as though it were just I movie I saw once.
I hadn't been drugged and tattooed in some bizarre act of possession. No way, that was just a sad strange movie I saw once.
I semi-smiled awkwardly and I suppose I knew that by holding back, you were finding reasons to stop loving me. But you didn't press the issue and instead rested your head on my shoulder as I drove us into the night. You didn't speak anymore and I never did to begin with, and this created a cloud of question marks that hovered gently around the spaces between our bodies.
I thought about three nights prior, at the first show your new band had ever played. It was a monumental moment for me because it was then that I saw that I would always be second or third or ninth, and I understood this even more after your set. Sweaty and slinky, you held me, and I whispered into your hair wet with sweat, "I've never loved you more," and you twitched. I half-expected you to turn and run away, but you stood still. Perhaps not holding me but effectively not moving away, either. "I love you, too," you said, and I flinched. It was the only time you had ever said this to me and I knew it was the wrong time. I felt odd, so I pulled away and went home without you.
Thinking of this, I slowed to turn onto your street to bring you home, and you sat up and said, "I'm not done yet," and though I wanted desperately to kidnap you and drive you far away with me, I thought about the tattoo on my ribcage and turned to you sadly.
"I have to let you go," I said.
You didn't speak. You looked at me hesitantly in the dark and I wasn't sure if you were considering this or thinking about kissing me.
In any case, the next morning when you called me at 9:02am to ask me why I wasn't at your house yet, I could only imagine you taking a photograph of me and later wondering who the forlorn girl in the picture could possibly be.
I hung up the phone and got into my car and drove the 2.5 miles to your house, thinking about telephone lines that sometimes get crossed and the zigzags stitched into the sky by airplanes separating lovers and friends and enemies and strangers. I opened the door to your house and walked up the spiral staircase to your room where you sat at your computer in your pajamas with a cup on coffee in your right hand.
"Herro!" you said, and I sighed and turned slightly away from you and pulled off my shirt.
"What do you see?" I asked.
"What's wrong with you?" you replied.
I pulled my shirt hastily back over my head and walked back down the stairs and out the door.
You called the next morning at 9:07am, wondering where I was.
with love and squalor,
ekw
It was an emotionally strange night for the both of us. We had just broken up (the first of three times) and somehow this compelled you to tell me about each scar on your body, systematically. You talked about your father, the time he torched your house because he was still mad that your mother divorced him. You didn't seem angry and you didn't blame him. Perhaps you'd do the same thing if I stopped loving you. Then you took my hand and smiled and said, "and you? You must have stories..." but it felt like the wrong time to show you all my scars. You had just broken up with me, afterall.
I never even told you about the tattoo on my ribcage, perhaps the most obvious of scars, but then again you never asked. Sometimes I felt hurt by this, but mostly I was relieved. I've never been good at talking about myself, and when I think about that time in my life, I see it as though it were just I movie I saw once.
I hadn't been drugged and tattooed in some bizarre act of possession. No way, that was just a sad strange movie I saw once.
I semi-smiled awkwardly and I suppose I knew that by holding back, you were finding reasons to stop loving me. But you didn't press the issue and instead rested your head on my shoulder as I drove us into the night. You didn't speak anymore and I never did to begin with, and this created a cloud of question marks that hovered gently around the spaces between our bodies.
I thought about three nights prior, at the first show your new band had ever played. It was a monumental moment for me because it was then that I saw that I would always be second or third or ninth, and I understood this even more after your set. Sweaty and slinky, you held me, and I whispered into your hair wet with sweat, "I've never loved you more," and you twitched. I half-expected you to turn and run away, but you stood still. Perhaps not holding me but effectively not moving away, either. "I love you, too," you said, and I flinched. It was the only time you had ever said this to me and I knew it was the wrong time. I felt odd, so I pulled away and went home without you.
Thinking of this, I slowed to turn onto your street to bring you home, and you sat up and said, "I'm not done yet," and though I wanted desperately to kidnap you and drive you far away with me, I thought about the tattoo on my ribcage and turned to you sadly.
"I have to let you go," I said.
You didn't speak. You looked at me hesitantly in the dark and I wasn't sure if you were considering this or thinking about kissing me.
In any case, the next morning when you called me at 9:02am to ask me why I wasn't at your house yet, I could only imagine you taking a photograph of me and later wondering who the forlorn girl in the picture could possibly be.
I hung up the phone and got into my car and drove the 2.5 miles to your house, thinking about telephone lines that sometimes get crossed and the zigzags stitched into the sky by airplanes separating lovers and friends and enemies and strangers. I opened the door to your house and walked up the spiral staircase to your room where you sat at your computer in your pajamas with a cup on coffee in your right hand.
"Herro!" you said, and I sighed and turned slightly away from you and pulled off my shirt.
"What do you see?" I asked.
"What's wrong with you?" you replied.
I pulled my shirt hastily back over my head and walked back down the stairs and out the door.
You called the next morning at 9:07am, wondering where I was.
with love and squalor,
ekw
No comments:
Post a Comment