Your eyes are a lighter blue when you cry. Two big baby blue wells sunken deep into your head. Not with a few tears, either. You have to be struggling to catch your breath, vision blurred, cheeks weighing down the corners of your mouth for your eyes to turn this light. It’s almost like you’re sobbing the color out of your irises.
You’re hard to look at when you’re like this.
“Sarah, please.” Is all you say when I close my bedroom door to blot your image out of my room.
“Sleep in the guest room. Leave when you wake up.” I mumble this through the door. My cheek pressed against the white frame. I know you hear me and I know you’re still standing on the other side.
It’s harder than I thought to pull my face from the frame. My arms feel thick and heavy. I pick up the clothes you have strewn across my floor and fold each T-shirt, sweater, and jeans. I pluck the paintings you made from my walls and stack them on your clothes. I pull the plastic ring from my finger, placing it on the painting of the skeletons. The skeletons had words hidden in their bones. A rib on the left read, “I love you.” The femur read, “I don’t want to die alone.”
I tighten my blue robe around my waist and sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the femur. “Who said you were gonna die alone? I’m sure you’ll find some slut by then.” I yell towards the door. You take this as an invitation to re-enter. “I want to be with you when I die.”
“That’s dramatic.
“It’s honest.”
You sit next to me. Your thigh is against mine. My first instinct is to move closer to you, before scooting away.
“Sarah, please.” You say.
“Don’t do this. Don’t beg.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You always are.”
“I mean it.”
Before I can say, “You always mean it,” you press your lips to my cheek. For a second I feel myself give in. The breath leaves my lungs in one gust. My skin feels light, almost as if I’d leave it behind if you were to move me in any direction.
“Don’t kiss me.” My voice sounds weak, barely audible.
“Why?” You ask before kissing me again.
“That’s not how break-ups work. Don’t you get it? I’m done.” I stand up and stare down at your face. Your eyes are red and glassy. I imagine they feel like your eyelashes are twisted into knots.
“You’re done.” You whisper. You don’t ask, you just croak the word, “done.” I nod my head. “Well I’m not.” You say this defiantly while you stand up, and press me into the wall with your arms around my waist.
I feel your breath on my neck, and your moist cheek pressed against my shoulder. I’m losing my nerve.
“God damn it.” I say while allowing you to pull the edges of my robe. “I don’t have any will power.”
You exhale, “I’m sorry,” between kisses.
"I know." I say.
7 comments:
I love this. What I love the most is the last line:
"'I know.' I say."
I like it because of the universality of the sentiment (boys are always sorry, boys never change), because you split it up into two separate sentences (there is such a difference between "'I know,' I say." and "'I know.' I say."!), and because you use "I say" instead of "I said." (totally different vibes from those two sentences, you know?).
Yes, I do love this story/blog. :)
merci! I'm already missing our non-fiction class so I had to write something today.
Squid,
(it seems strange calling you that)
You don't need a sense of humor when you can write emotion like this.
Good stuff:)
(and pretty new pic, by the way.)
THANK YOU! (it would still be nice to have a sense of humor)
people laugh at tom waits' stories, and most of them aren't particularly rib-tickling.
well, "Frank's Wild Years" is pretty funny.
I don't believe you don't have a sense of humor.
I do believe it's hard to explain why you thought something was funny without ending up at "you had to be there."
"never could stand that dog."
I think Tom Waits can be funny...when he's not being depressing. "Frank's Wild Years" as you already said...and "Tab;e Top Joe" now that one cracks me up!
I love that you mention Tom Waits...he is my greatest love
knew you had a sense of humor
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