Bountiful Words, Beautiful World

Its difficult knowing that what things are for one person can be completely different for the other. Feelings can meet somewhere in the middle along a road of mutual understanding, but at which depth do they both drown in the thing? The hardest part for her wasn’t knowing that he didn’t want her the way she’d expected. It was knowing that she wanted him in a way that caught her completely off guard. It was no longer just a matter of wanting his hands in her hair or his body leaning into hers; she desired to know him. To honestly and completely understand and know what made him. He was still content with the thrill and the chase. The trading of banter and wits that would lead nowhere. Not realizing that he owned a bit of her that she couldn’t retrieve until he was willing to open himself up and let her inside.
It would take a lifetime.

we didn’t have money growing up. I’m talking ketchup packets and saltines for dinner poor. Somehow, still not sure how to this day, we always went to see movies. One of my earliest memories is curling up on the floor of the theater watching Amadeus. I must’ve been 4 or 5? Timing tells me 5. My mom loved movies. Loved them. And we always went together. She didn’t have consistent friends or sitters; we moved around too much for that. So she always took me along. I know saw ET and Return of the Jedi but I can’t remember those. I got older and the movies got more varied. She loved the theater. Loved the moment when the lights would drop and the studio emblem would emblazon the screen and she would lean in close to my ear and she would whisper “it’s magic time”. Every time. Every movie. I remember seeing Working Girl and Forrest Gump and Born in the Fourth of July. Top Gun and Beetlejuice and  Aliens. In the theater all if them. Sometimes once a week. If we lived near a dollar theater (we often did) we’d go see two or three in a day. It continued into my adulthood. I loved movies and still do, because of her. I’ve written screenplays and wanted to be a director and still love to watch the oscars and the golden globes. I love them.

I went to a movie today. First one since. And it hurt. I could feel her excitement. Missed her whispering “it’s magic time” missed the moments after talking about our favorite parts and how it stacked up to other movies and whether it deserves awards (it does).

We always had money and time for movies. And I thought we had lots more time for more movies. 

The magic is gone.

For those just catching up, it’s almost November. And this is me gearing up for the challenge. I’m not “suddenly” posting again hoping to get a resurgence of “how do ya” from the old guard and I’m certainly not peddling anything. Just using a platform that’s easily accessible to do the thing.

Quiet comes at a price. In this case it was the price of a tank of gas, a bag of Funyuns and a diet Pepsi. She didn’t mean to grab diet, or Pepsi for that matter, so the bottle sat untouched in the cup holder. 

The house sat lonely; the owners gone for weeks already with no end to their trip in sight. What would that be like? To go with no intention of coming back until all the going was worn out? She’d never know. The cash in her wallet was all she had. Her bank account was overdrawn and her job was given away to someone younger with more enthusiasm for being treated like shit on a daily basis.

This was technically her job now. Sit in an empty house and make sure it was still standing when they returned. It paid little but the rent was free and she’d have time to write. A thing in theory she should be able to do anywhere.
Hatred fueled every touch. Feeling his skin beneath her lips and knowing that he despised her as much as she him. It couldn’t Prevent the collision of their bodies; the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he struggled against her, tongue in her mouth. She wanted to hold fast to the hate. But his fingers buried in her skin opened something deep within her. She could feel the hate slide away with every stroke of skin on skin and before the night was over she knew she’d have forgotten why they hated each other to begin with.

Accidently remembering to forget the thing I forgot I remembered in the first place.

Stealing all these moments and churning out fiction. 

Carving your initials in the trunk of a dead tree. Making a place in my mind for you to love me. Carefully carrying away the thoughts of you before the new moon brings a new tide of feeling. Making room for you,impossible, since the room is full and no one has asked to let space in years. Quietly wishing all of this would go away. Quietly hoping it lasts long enough to see fruition. Hoping against hope the pain stops before the breathing does.

He stood in the doorway. Just leaning. Not all in but enough so that the wind picked up his scent and carried it across the room to where she sat cross legged on the bed. She hadnt noticed him before. She did now.
Not many things happened that day. But the lingering scent of sex on the sheets was like a promise that the night was soon to come.

Crossing the street to where he stood, an imperfect figure in battered jeans and tee shirt. They couldn’t quit this thing they’d started. And even though it wasn’t something either would admit, the longing and anticipation was a drug they both needed.

He wouldn’t close his eyes until he knew she was asleep. Safely tucked in his arms. Just this once he could hold her and it was okay. Nothing more than two bodies needing the comfort of each to sleep in a strange city.

How do you put a life into context? What made it well lived? Who gets to decide that at the end, when it’s done?

He touched my hand in the parking lot; gently twining his fingers with mine. I was undone in that moment. Unable to remember a time when I hadn’t wanted that hand exactly there at exactly then.  It isn’t often we find out a thing that isn’t what we expected has turned into the thing we can’t imagine being without. I didn’t ask for this dish, but I’m also not sending it back to the kitchen.

She walks slowly into the dark room and leans against the wall close to his desk. They don’t touch; can’t and don’t need to. 

His breathing falls and rises and falls and rises. She wants to reach out and touch him; any part of him within reach, but she hesitates. As if sensing her need, even sleeping as deeply as he does, he breaches the vast space between them and wrapping his heavy arm around her he hauls her into an embrace that sends her soothed soul into the sweetness of slumber.