She looked up from her table. The bells chimed. He pushed open the door.
“You’re late.”
“I know.” He pulled the chair across from her out and sat down. She smiled and he smiled. Then both of them laughed.
The waiter walked over and she asked for more coffee. He nodded to make it two. The waiter left and then came back with the drinks. She tore the lid off a container of cream and he added sugar. She then grabbed a spoon and began to stir, almost violently. He just let his cup sit there.
“How are you?” she asked.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you getting married? Everyone is talking about it.”
“What?”
He felt like smiling, but he lacked the strength to move his facial muscles. She sat there, looking calm and composed like always. Neither of them knew how or when, but slowly, the tears began to fall.
She was crying silently as the tears rolled down her face and clung to the hair cascading down her shoulders. Her makeup began to run as it smudged and mingled with her tears, creating patterns as it dribbled down her cheeks.
He ran his fingers through his hair, catching hold and tearing through the tangles, so that he wouldn’t be tempted to reach for her. They sat there awkwardly.
All outside the café, it continued to rain, an attempt to drown out the sirens, the traffic and the voices as the neon signs blazed weakly in the gray.
Around them, the air was warm and stuffy, for the heat in the café was turned far too high. The potted plants drew flies, their soft buzz noticeable over the clanking of the silverware.
Neither of them said anything.
Slowly, once the tears had dried, she began to move, gathering her purse and swinging it up over her shoulder. He pushed back his chair, grabbed his briefcase and followed her out the door.
The bells chimed. “Thank you for coming,” floated above the traffic noise on the street.
They were holding hands as they walked down and across the road. It was the only form of relief they’d been given. The ability to go unnoticed in a crowd.
She wasn’t going to say it and neither would he. It was too delicate and strong a chain that was wrapped around them. Even though they both thought that the two of them should have been one person or had no relation at all. Then they would have been on the same playing field as everyone else at least.
God’s a bastard, though. It was still raining as they left.
Wednesday, 27 February 2013
Tuesday, 26 February 2013
The Egg Part II: Whites
He was late and was running. The rain was still trickling down and clinging against him in its desperate attempt to assimilate into his skin. The city around him was grey, as the cement slowly leeched away from the ground and started to surround him. It was raining like the heavens were dying, as the sky slowly started to slide and tilt down toward the earth in its broken realization of disintegration.
He looked a mess on the outside, water dripping down into his eyes, tie flapping as her ran, briefcase swinging at his side. On the inside, he was a child. He would play around with people and the words they spoke in a reluctant from of exercise.
The water rose up as the cars dragged their wheels through the puddles, splashing those who were in the vicinity. He was soaked, and yet still completely fashionable in a suit as always.
He kept sneaking glances of hidden crevasses as he ran past them. It was a boy’s game to imagine what treasure could be found hidden around you. He was still a boy, and he exploited that and the freedom it came with. It was a dream to laugh wildly and not care what people thought
There’s always art built in around the body and its surroundings. The sound of traffic as it bounces and curves around the hollow shape of the ears, and its affect on the sense of danger.
He hated the boundaries he was confined to by living. The unspoken rules as they wedged themselves deep into the skin and stuck like a rash that would never leave. He smiled, for she was always telling him that’s why he could never grow up.
He couldn’t though. Not while something sharp was stabbing him in the heart. He bit down and could taste blood. That’s all he was ever eating now, just the blood produced from rage as it overtook him.
He could see the café now.
He looked a mess on the outside, water dripping down into his eyes, tie flapping as her ran, briefcase swinging at his side. On the inside, he was a child. He would play around with people and the words they spoke in a reluctant from of exercise.
The water rose up as the cars dragged their wheels through the puddles, splashing those who were in the vicinity. He was soaked, and yet still completely fashionable in a suit as always.
He kept sneaking glances of hidden crevasses as he ran past them. It was a boy’s game to imagine what treasure could be found hidden around you. He was still a boy, and he exploited that and the freedom it came with. It was a dream to laugh wildly and not care what people thought
There’s always art built in around the body and its surroundings. The sound of traffic as it bounces and curves around the hollow shape of the ears, and its affect on the sense of danger.
He hated the boundaries he was confined to by living. The unspoken rules as they wedged themselves deep into the skin and stuck like a rash that would never leave. He smiled, for she was always telling him that’s why he could never grow up.
He couldn’t though. Not while something sharp was stabbing him in the heart. He bit down and could taste blood. That’s all he was ever eating now, just the blood produced from rage as it overtook him.
He could see the café now.
Monday, 25 February 2013
The Egg Part I: Yolk
She sat there at the table in the café, her coffee untouched, slightly off side of her elbows where they were perched on the table as she watched the world through the window. The people outside were always running, even more so today due to the rain. Recently, it always seemed to be raining, as if God couldn’t stop crying. She almost felt like letting tears fall as well, but she lacked the willpower to muster enough emotion.
On the outside, she looked refined and polished. On the inside, she was dead. She hummed like a well-oiled machine as she waited.
The inside of the world surrounding her was warm, with its usual abundance of potted plants and empty dishes, abandoned by people as they, too, began to run to some unknown destination. The atmosphere was sunny, like a comforting memory as it enveloped its dreamers, creating a particular state of mind that welcomed the consumption of it.
She was a dreamer, as she sat there admiring the soft reflection of her face. A dull, washed-out version of herself through the windows. Her colouring was dark and pale, the two shades trying to match her personality but failing to make an impact. She could see the fine spider-like lines as they traced the edges of her skin, forming the gentle movement that was her face.
She smiled softly. She laughed quietly. Still, she didn’t touch her coffee, and eventually the waiter asked if she was done with it. She told him to leave it, and so he did. Slowly, she began to rip the sugar packets apart and dump them into the liquid, creating a sugary sludge that she stirred it with a spoon.
Then she began to drink.
She loved her face and hated her body. For they were wrong in a way that was right, for it didn’t seem to match him. However, society accepted this relation the two of them had. Society accepted it, yet would not allow her that one pleasure.
She finished the drink and set the cup down with a thud.
She wished that she’d been born as part of him, that she’d been born as his heart. Because then she could always stay with him.
On the outside, she looked refined and polished. On the inside, she was dead. She hummed like a well-oiled machine as she waited.
The inside of the world surrounding her was warm, with its usual abundance of potted plants and empty dishes, abandoned by people as they, too, began to run to some unknown destination. The atmosphere was sunny, like a comforting memory as it enveloped its dreamers, creating a particular state of mind that welcomed the consumption of it.
She was a dreamer, as she sat there admiring the soft reflection of her face. A dull, washed-out version of herself through the windows. Her colouring was dark and pale, the two shades trying to match her personality but failing to make an impact. She could see the fine spider-like lines as they traced the edges of her skin, forming the gentle movement that was her face.
She smiled softly. She laughed quietly. Still, she didn’t touch her coffee, and eventually the waiter asked if she was done with it. She told him to leave it, and so he did. Slowly, she began to rip the sugar packets apart and dump them into the liquid, creating a sugary sludge that she stirred it with a spoon.
Then she began to drink.
She loved her face and hated her body. For they were wrong in a way that was right, for it didn’t seem to match him. However, society accepted this relation the two of them had. Society accepted it, yet would not allow her that one pleasure.
She finished the drink and set the cup down with a thud.
She wished that she’d been born as part of him, that she’d been born as his heart. Because then she could always stay with him.
Sunday, 24 February 2013
The Egg
The shell so delicately breakable
with a creamy white lace trim.
The outside looks so feminine,
so shatterable like glass
yet the yolk runs so thickly yellow,
hard to separate
the stubborn substances inside
and determine what to make of it.
with a creamy white lace trim.
The outside looks so feminine,
so shatterable like glass
yet the yolk runs so thickly yellow,
hard to separate
the stubborn substances inside
and determine what to make of it.
Sunday, 17 February 2013
Ice Cubes
It’s not as if it was an easy choice. The marble was cold against her skin as she huddled down within the ice cubes overflowing the bathtub’s oval curves.
Wine flowed down the counter and frothed into the corners of the room, blooming like mad flowers along the floor.
She couldn’t feel her skin. It’s not as if this was a suicide attempt. That would be too easy. She didn’t need to feel anything, though. She was waiting for him to open the bathroom door.
He would enter the house as he did every day. He’d hang his keys up at the front entrance, leave his wallet on the chest by the door, and throw his jacket over the banister. She could almost taste the black fabric of his clothing. She should know it. She’d peeled it back from his skin enough times.
It was a stunt. It was a desperate affair. It was all and neither of these. Slowly, she pulled herself out of the tub and staggered over to the mirror. The pale bruises and blue kisses left by the ice were the reminders of each night, reflected back slowly in the light of the moon.
The window was open and she loved the breeze. She couldn’t laugh, though. She turned back and slowly doubled over, almost falling head first into the tub. The crunch of the ice covered the sound of the door opening.
She knew it was him, even in her delirium. She always did. It was one of the gifts she had developed in their relationship. He’d managed to carve himself in deep, so that she could always feel him echoing from her memories. The curve of his hands dug in, twisting over her skin as he picked her up and extracted her from the tub.
The wine slowly sloshed up against the walls, staining itself in patterns against white paint, the cold tile of the tub, the glass broken in two and shattered on the counter. Ice trailed across the bathroom floor and out the door toward the bedroom.
The door closed with a click, and then the screaming began.
Wine flowed down the counter and frothed into the corners of the room, blooming like mad flowers along the floor.
She couldn’t feel her skin. It’s not as if this was a suicide attempt. That would be too easy. She didn’t need to feel anything, though. She was waiting for him to open the bathroom door.
He would enter the house as he did every day. He’d hang his keys up at the front entrance, leave his wallet on the chest by the door, and throw his jacket over the banister. She could almost taste the black fabric of his clothing. She should know it. She’d peeled it back from his skin enough times.
It was a stunt. It was a desperate affair. It was all and neither of these. Slowly, she pulled herself out of the tub and staggered over to the mirror. The pale bruises and blue kisses left by the ice were the reminders of each night, reflected back slowly in the light of the moon.
The window was open and she loved the breeze. She couldn’t laugh, though. She turned back and slowly doubled over, almost falling head first into the tub. The crunch of the ice covered the sound of the door opening.
She knew it was him, even in her delirium. She always did. It was one of the gifts she had developed in their relationship. He’d managed to carve himself in deep, so that she could always feel him echoing from her memories. The curve of his hands dug in, twisting over her skin as he picked her up and extracted her from the tub.
The wine slowly sloshed up against the walls, staining itself in patterns against white paint, the cold tile of the tub, the glass broken in two and shattered on the counter. Ice trailed across the bathroom floor and out the door toward the bedroom.
The door closed with a click, and then the screaming began.
Thursday, 14 February 2013
The Crack
Before it got really bad, it was just that sometimes a color was off. The sky would be yellow, the water red, or people’s skin a shade of blue. It’s not like it bothered me, though. I think I just thought it was all normal.
I can’t really remember when it all started, though I think it was about three years ago. I would have been seventeen. That’s when things started to hurt, and I got scared. I could never really manage to tell reality and my dream world apart, for the two of them co-existed together as they slid over top of each other.
There were two visions I could never seem to get rid of, though. The others were just fleeting. The girl in the mirror, the blue boy who lived under the bed. You’d have a conversation, and then poof, they’d be gone. Those visions were all right. They were almost like a child’s fantasy, really.
The real problem was the angels.
I’d see angels everywhere. Some were branded onto my skin like a moving tattoo, never staying in one place. You know how books or pens just fall randomly and you think you’ve bumped them? I’d see angels pushing them off the table and laughing with happy voices.
One used to live in bowls, and one morning she rose above the cereal and said, “You’re damned.” That’s all the angels would say to me. You’re damned. I can still hear them in my sleep sometimes.
I used to see you with wings. I don’t know why. Probably because I was in love with you. I still am. I guess I saw those wings on you because that way, it would make sense for my feelings to not be returned. If I’m in love with an angel, it would make sense for you not to be in love with a human.
I can remember that day the visions got worse. I don’t want you to blame yourself. I don’t want you to fall into self-hatred. None of this was your fault. It’s nobody’s fault.
I remember I was waiting for the bus and you sat down beside me. I couldn’t tell the difference, I’d never had a hallucination of you before. Wings or flowers blooming on you, sure, but this was different. You were so solidly real. Even your voice sounded the same.
You said, “Hey Alex, do you know I love you?” in the same blunt manner as always. And seriously, it was like a dream come true. We’d been holding hands and then you got up, let go and walked directly into the oncoming semi.
That was the first time. I’ve seen you slit your wrists, I’ve seen you drowning, murdered, jumping, and always you’re saying you love me with your last gasping breath. It all just blends together.
I told you I don’t want you to blame or hate yourself. It’s not your fault this happened, or that I’m in love with you. You’re just my psychotic obsession, sweets. I just wish that you were in love with me. You already know all this, though.
I can’t really remember when it all started, though I think it was about three years ago. I would have been seventeen. That’s when things started to hurt, and I got scared. I could never really manage to tell reality and my dream world apart, for the two of them co-existed together as they slid over top of each other.
There were two visions I could never seem to get rid of, though. The others were just fleeting. The girl in the mirror, the blue boy who lived under the bed. You’d have a conversation, and then poof, they’d be gone. Those visions were all right. They were almost like a child’s fantasy, really.
The real problem was the angels.
I’d see angels everywhere. Some were branded onto my skin like a moving tattoo, never staying in one place. You know how books or pens just fall randomly and you think you’ve bumped them? I’d see angels pushing them off the table and laughing with happy voices.
One used to live in bowls, and one morning she rose above the cereal and said, “You’re damned.” That’s all the angels would say to me. You’re damned. I can still hear them in my sleep sometimes.
I used to see you with wings. I don’t know why. Probably because I was in love with you. I still am. I guess I saw those wings on you because that way, it would make sense for my feelings to not be returned. If I’m in love with an angel, it would make sense for you not to be in love with a human.
I can remember that day the visions got worse. I don’t want you to blame yourself. I don’t want you to fall into self-hatred. None of this was your fault. It’s nobody’s fault.
I remember I was waiting for the bus and you sat down beside me. I couldn’t tell the difference, I’d never had a hallucination of you before. Wings or flowers blooming on you, sure, but this was different. You were so solidly real. Even your voice sounded the same.
You said, “Hey Alex, do you know I love you?” in the same blunt manner as always. And seriously, it was like a dream come true. We’d been holding hands and then you got up, let go and walked directly into the oncoming semi.
That was the first time. I’ve seen you slit your wrists, I’ve seen you drowning, murdered, jumping, and always you’re saying you love me with your last gasping breath. It all just blends together.
I told you I don’t want you to blame or hate yourself. It’s not your fault this happened, or that I’m in love with you. You’re just my psychotic obsession, sweets. I just wish that you were in love with me. You already know all this, though.
Friday, 8 February 2013
An Alcoholic's Ballade
He couldn’t feel his hands anymore. He could see them as he watched them tremble, fingers closing around the half-empty wine glass, sloshing its sweetness over the sides and down to the floor.
Everyone was laughing for no reason. Feeling no pain. Crushed by their own dreams and wishes. So they had turned to an old lover to warm them up on the cold night of New Year’s Eve.
Everyone laughing for no reason, and he was about to join them.
He could taste her on his lips as a smile danced across his tongue. In his fantasies, she was wrapped around him like a snake, like a cat. Always purring softly in his ear. It was just enough to tip the balance.
He could remember when she’d shown up, just shortly after nine. Hand in hand with another man, smiling, she’d taken the room by storm.
He’d watched, vaguely interested, as she worked her way though the room with all subtlety of a burlesque show.
The man who had entered with her was the first to fall, and then down they all went. No concern about age, gender, or sexual orientation, for they were all lured by her warmth, her comfort, and the promise of something more to come, later in the bedroom.
Soon, she’d turned to him, and with the encouragement of his friends choking him by the neck, he’d given in to her.
Glass by glass was swallowed in the deliberate drunkenness of time, as she danced across the wreckage, stepping over bodies while singing tunes of death.
They were laughing, some dying, in a ritual older than the era.
He couldn’t feel his hands. In some part of his mind, he could still move, could touch her as she moved over him, gently undoing the buttons and the wrappings of a promise.
There were no bells to ring as the moments between the years dissolved. The sirens of contemporary time echoed thoughout the city, spinning out across the graves of those who would die that night, seduced and abandoned.
She’d left him there, alone, unsatisfied and wanting mores. Intoxicated with all the possibilities of a lifelong romance blooming though him.
Everyone was laughing for no reason. Feeling no pain. Crushed by their own dreams and wishes. So they had turned to an old lover to warm them up on the cold night of New Year’s Eve.
Everyone laughing for no reason, and he was about to join them.
He could taste her on his lips as a smile danced across his tongue. In his fantasies, she was wrapped around him like a snake, like a cat. Always purring softly in his ear. It was just enough to tip the balance.
He could remember when she’d shown up, just shortly after nine. Hand in hand with another man, smiling, she’d taken the room by storm.
He’d watched, vaguely interested, as she worked her way though the room with all subtlety of a burlesque show.
The man who had entered with her was the first to fall, and then down they all went. No concern about age, gender, or sexual orientation, for they were all lured by her warmth, her comfort, and the promise of something more to come, later in the bedroom.
Soon, she’d turned to him, and with the encouragement of his friends choking him by the neck, he’d given in to her.
Glass by glass was swallowed in the deliberate drunkenness of time, as she danced across the wreckage, stepping over bodies while singing tunes of death.
They were laughing, some dying, in a ritual older than the era.
He couldn’t feel his hands. In some part of his mind, he could still move, could touch her as she moved over him, gently undoing the buttons and the wrappings of a promise.
There were no bells to ring as the moments between the years dissolved. The sirens of contemporary time echoed thoughout the city, spinning out across the graves of those who would die that night, seduced and abandoned.
She’d left him there, alone, unsatisfied and wanting mores. Intoxicated with all the possibilities of a lifelong romance blooming though him.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)