Closer
She tells a story.
She loved him. Until the very last minute. Within the last seconds. In his final, hurtful, teary eyed, breath…she loved.
It was cold. There was snow. Alone, she had decorated the dark space. Alive in neon colored lights, and snow.
Alone. She watched Lady and the Tramp. She remembered hers. He warmed her heart.
And she loved him.
After the end, the weight loss, the salads that, at the time, felt enormous, she still loved.
Breaking in the shower. Hands and knees, panted breath mixed in the steam, tears lost in the hot droplets. Of course, she couldn’t stand.
They met over tea, in the dark of winter and the death of the old year.
His words robbed her appetite. She poked steamed vegetables. White rice. Uneaten. In the red leather room.
In the car, he slowly, easily, killed her. Methodically. She held his hand. Watched the snow fall. She contemplated every breath.
They parted. Again.
January continues in a silence, until school starts. Strangers save her.
There was a boy. He was young, he was thin, he followed her. From the party, in the snow, to a dance, where his hands spoke louder than the music blared.
She let him.
And he followed her home.
She warned him. He called her small. She let him for four months.
Paranoia and self imposed image rang louder than lonely betrayal. After Sunday, sore, mouth kissed raw, smell of beer in the sheets, she would remember again. And sob.
The insanity of the prior days melted from her. She ate again. She sang again. She stood up. In the throngs of alcohol and girl dress parties, she met a German. In their stupors, they confessed lost loves. And, though not terribly drawn, she felt the heat of his attraction, and it warmed her.
She allowed him to call. To walk. To speak. One night, kissed. Another night, somehow ending up back in a sterile room. Pulled on a bed. Clothes removed. Complimented on being sexy. All the while…afraid. Feeling he must need the comfort. Why not…
In the end, he listened to her story. He apologized to her. For harms, not caused by him. He called her the marrying type.
She doesn’t believe it anymore.
Summer. He blipped on her screen. She cried. Ran away. Home.
Lost in Shakespeare and Sunshine.
Incidents.
A married man. 29. Blonde. Actor. She noticed his lingering smile. Broke his gaze. Avoided being alone. Until, trusting the better of human nature, and yielding to vain curiousity..she allowed him to drive her home.
He unbuckled his seat belt in the lot. Told her to leave. She stayed. Silent. Feeling the experience. His hands cupped her face, drew her in, kissed her.
Asked if she was a virgin. Said he wanted to make love to her. She stayed silent.
She loved his words.
Nothing happened.
Next night. He was tall. Thin. 6’7. Beautiful. He offered to kiss her, alone, in her house. She let him follow her home.
In the dark, his nose grazed her cheek. She confessed her summertime crush. He was 28. Told her she was cute. Sexy.
Wanted to see her naked. Wanted to go down on her.
She let him.
He asked for candles. And a bed room. What San Rafael has to offer….
What he gave her…memories.
Told her she was really beautiful.
She complimented him on his height. And spiritual life. Oddity. He offered sex. He apologized for trying to seduce her. They stayed with pleasure.
In the men’s dressing room..he kissed her.
Now she watches Closer. Sneaking white wine. Feeling out of place in academics. Out of place in the theatre. Worried that academics is a false wind in her future sales.
And she remembers details.
And wonders……….
Why.
posted by Tuxedo | 10:07 PM
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