T
TheLonelySkeptic
Guest
He remembers how the cold of the wide, impersonal window on the Greyhound made the right corner of his forehead ache as he stared at the New Mexico stars and wondered if she, too, could see Sirius. He remembers the hunt—the pounding chase fueled by promises of kisses and reconciliation sent via text message. He remembers the “i love you”s and the “i can't wait”s and the picture sent of her new belly ring with her jeans half undone.
He carries with him two of her letters—one signed Love and the other Sincerely—both anticipating the time when they would finally meet face to face. He carries with him clothes for a seven-day stay and his cellphone with a picture of her in nothing but a Santa hat.
He remembers stepping off the bus and being afraid to hug her, as it was now Tuesday and he had not showered since Friday. He remembers reaching into the backseat of the car on their way to billiards, squeezing her hand and feeling no pressure in return. He remembers the cold, neutral and evasive eyes that all the while refused to meet his. He remembers reaching out and brushing her belly with the backs of his fingertips as she sat upright and soberly read a novel.
He remembers her lukewarm apology; how she sedated herself in the lazy-boy as he curled on the couch and confessed his hatred. He remembers her as a jockeying, sinister thing: a shiver just looking for a spine to run up. He remembers wanting to do something bold—thinking that he should take her upstairs and tie her to the bed so he could brush and kiss at her belly all night long.
He remembers the early ride home, looking at and deleting the pictures and thinking up new things he should have done. He imagines her happy with another, content with another; in bed with another; on the floor, over the counter, on the couch with another. Someone stronger, better looking, smarter, more agile. He imagines her with one, then another, and then all others at once and at the same time; things he'd do and things she would never let him do. Clean things, dirty things, dry things, wet things. Masochism of the heart; it's like medicine to him. Therapy.
He carries with him two of her letters—one signed Love and the other Sincerely—both anticipating the time when they would finally meet face to face. He carries with him clothes for a seven-day stay and his cellphone with a picture of her in nothing but a Santa hat.
He remembers stepping off the bus and being afraid to hug her, as it was now Tuesday and he had not showered since Friday. He remembers reaching into the backseat of the car on their way to billiards, squeezing her hand and feeling no pressure in return. He remembers the cold, neutral and evasive eyes that all the while refused to meet his. He remembers reaching out and brushing her belly with the backs of his fingertips as she sat upright and soberly read a novel.
He remembers her lukewarm apology; how she sedated herself in the lazy-boy as he curled on the couch and confessed his hatred. He remembers her as a jockeying, sinister thing: a shiver just looking for a spine to run up. He remembers wanting to do something bold—thinking that he should take her upstairs and tie her to the bed so he could brush and kiss at her belly all night long.
He remembers the early ride home, looking at and deleting the pictures and thinking up new things he should have done. He imagines her happy with another, content with another; in bed with another; on the floor, over the counter, on the couch with another. Someone stronger, better looking, smarter, more agile. He imagines her with one, then another, and then all others at once and at the same time; things he'd do and things she would never let him do. Clean things, dirty things, dry things, wet things. Masochism of the heart; it's like medicine to him. Therapy.
