"You need to be touched," he breathed, wrapping his arms around me and crushing my softness against his chest. "You don't get touched enough. You need to be touched all over." The words sliced down into the heart of me, leaving me bleeding and bare in the darkness. ~ The car ride was short, comparatively. Two hours, two and a half tops. G called before I left. "Are you going?" he asked. "I'm going to be there. You'll be in my neck of the woods for once." "Yeah," I said, tentatively. It's dangerous for me to get too close to G. Fire happens, and someone gets burned. Usually me. "Clear your Saturday night," he orders presumptuously, the cheeky bastard. "I'm going to take you to a hockey game." "We'll see," I say with a smile, but I know there's little else I'm likely to be doing. ~ The lamp light was diffused, pale, glowing from behind my head. It cast soft shadows on the angles of his face. He had deeper lines around his mouth than I remembered, but his face looked beautiful nonetheless. ~ He showed up late. My radar was on high. I knew pretty much exactly when he arrived. He fought rapier for a while, but not long. Packed up his gear slowly, while I chatted with a man from out east. A girl came up to say hello to G. Kissed him, smacked him on the ass, then left. "Nice to see you again," she chirped, right before she left. I was cold, reserved. "Well?" G said. looking embarrassed. "Coming or what?" "I dunno," I say, reluctantly. "There are other people I'd rather be doing." He looked at me with twisted lips. I had to laugh. I didn't have anything better to do. I couldn't say no. I was compelled. "Let's swing by the sleeping hall," I said, "so I can grab my regular clothes." He grinned. ~ "You're going to see my place finally," he said, driving like a maniac. It was raining. It had been raining all weekend. "Yeah," I said. I was curious. I'd talked to him so many times while he was standing in that house, but had never seen it. "Stop driving like a maniac." He did. He looked at me for too long, like people driving in movies. I looked at him. "What?" I said. He glances at the road, corrects his driving, then looks back at me. "You look good, Rosie," he says, seriously. I looked at him and smile. I refrain from saying 'I know', but I do. I planned my make-up carefully -- simply a little cover-up, mascara, and a translucent rubbing of lipstick -- to make it look like I've just been vigorously kissed. Add a tiny sparkle of gold and green at my ears, and a delicate gold chain that caressed the top of my breasts like a suggestion, and I know he wasn't the only man I was driving a little wild. But somehow, it means more coming from him. "Don't kill us," I say instead. "I don't have travel insurance." "Ah," he says. "I see. Well then." He looks back at the road. ~ When you're weary... Feeling low... ~ His apartment is nonedescript. First floor place, window facing into the narrow road between the two buildings. It's a nice place, but small. "Are you hungry?" he asks, looking in the fridge. "Starving," I say, and I am. He looks at me and his mouth slips sideways. He has only one piece of fish. "How do you feel about corned beef hash?" he asks, and makes me corned beef hash with eggs. ~ He had a spare bed. I didn't sleep in it. ~ I laid on his loveseat while he got ready to ref his game. Watched The Day After Tomorrow. It was very depressing, though it somehow suited the current situation. He switched it to hockey when he came in. I switched it to H@rry P0tter when he left. "Ready?" he asked, dragging a duffel. ~ The game was boring. I am a bad Canadian for not enjoying hockey. But I liked to watch him skate. He was the best skater of all the refs. It was a college game. Two fights. The refs belly-flopped on the fighters and lay like dead weights until they stopped. I liked that part. I drank two cups of tea with bad sweetener, and a bag of salty popcorn. Did some knitting business. Started reading Dune. Stared at G's butt. You know. Caught him looking at me once. He grinned, fast, then looked back to the game. Went for bad Chinese food after the game with his boss, the coach for one of the teams, and I think one of the other refs. Maybe he was another coach. Not sure. They were...stereotypical. It was strange. The boss was pretty hilarious, but the two coaches were lame. Made gay jokes about my rainbow sweater, talked about how awesome fighting was. Dicks. Eventually I plead tired, and we paid out. "It's too late to take you back to the event," G says, and I know he's lying, but I agree. I'd have to stay. ~ When tears are in your eyes... I will dry them all. ~ He buys a milk shake on the way back. I lay on his loveseat while he crushes cookies into it. "I'm tired," I say. "I need to sleep soon." He looks at me, then at his milkshake, and puts his milkshake in the fridge. He kneels in front of me, cautiously and almost reverently, as if I might slap him away, and lays his head on my belly. I put my hand on his cheek. His stubble is rough under my palm, and grows in a thousand directions. His eyes are closed. The lamp light spills across his skin, all soft caramels and burnt sugar shadows. His eyes slide open and look right into my soul. "Sing me a lullaby?" he asks. I laugh a little, and tell him I don't know any. ~ "Stop torturing yourself," Lisa tells me, and I know she's right. I'm just torturing myself with him. ~ He has some sort of fascination with my hair. It covers my shoulders like a mantle, but he wont let it lay. He sinks his fingers into it, spreads it, tangles it. I can feel the knots forming, heavy lumps against my back, and still he digs his hands in. He strokes the hair back from my forehead with the tips of his fingers. On the last stroke, he grabs a handful of hair and pulls my head back so he can reach my lips. His breath, hot and sweet and vaguely peppermint, is so close. So close I could suck it in. ~ He kneels, head on my belly. I sing. The notes vibrate from my chest and straight into his head. I'm on your side when times get rough and you need a friend. I sing a few verses, all that I can remember. He listens with his eyes shut. I mostly hit the right notes. "Cheesy," I admit when I'm finished, "but I like it." "I've never heard it before," he says, and I'm not sure whether to believe him. ~ He holds me in the night. His skin is so soft, softer than mine. He kisses me. The fire, the pheromones. I haven't bathed in days, or shaved in months. My belly fat rolls, the weight gained from when I was so depressed there. He sits on my bum, rubs my back in the dark. He stops, so I look at him out of the corner of my eye. He's staring at me. I know my skin is so pale, it glows from the dim light from the street. "What?" I murmur, my words muffled by the pillow. "I am amazed you did not stop the whole war with people staring at you," he says, planting a hand beside each one of my shoulders and leaning down until I can feel his lips on my ear. His breath spills over my cheek like the hand of a lover. "You are exquisite." ~ I wake up the next morning. He is still asleep. Before I even think about it, I kiss his shoulder. Reason rears its ugly head and I slither quietly out of bed, shrugging on my bra and shirt. Cold thin sunlight pierces the bedroom. ~ "What are you thinking?" he asks. I watch the rain crawl up the windshield, like crying in reverse. He does not have his windshield wipers on as often as they ought to be. "I'm thinking about the rain," I tell him, but I'm thinking about him, and how much I love him, and how much that is a bad idea. "And?" he prods. "And getting back to the event," I say. "And?" "And what people will say if they notice I was gone all night." "And?" And I love you, you stupid idiotic non-reciprocating man. "That's all," I tell him. "No it isn't," he tells me. "I can read you like a book." He can read me like a book. Those stupid beautiful eyes that can look right into me. "Can't it be all?" I ask. ~ He holds my hand in both of his. I am not quite crying. I've managed to hold it together. "I hope you learn to love some day," I tell him, scraping open old wounds on both of us. "I hear it's wonderful," he tells me. His fingers knead mine. I would swear there is a part of him that loves me, but perhaps that is only self-serving wishing. "Wonderful and terrible," I tell him, thinking of my own scarred heart. "I have to go." "Okay," he says. There are so many unsaid words between us, so many said words. I cannot fall in love again. I think once more round with this boy would actually literally kill me. But oh, oh do I love him so. I love him past sense and logic, past insanity and straight into poetry. Horrible, horrible teenage poetry. . Rosie.
Before&After
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