"I waited all day.
you waited all day…
but you left before sunset…
and I just wanted to tell you
the moment was beautiful.
Just wanted to dance to bad music
drive bad cars…
watch bad TV…
should have stayed for the sunset…
if not for me."
- poem hidden in Vitalogy
He just sat.
For a bit, breathing.
She sat next to him, shoulder to shoulder. She made the movement slowly and thoughtfully, as if it she was trying to be conscious of all the muscles being used by that movement.
He used to hate human contact. He hated the way it made him feel misplaced, awkward, undeserving. With her it was different, but still, an unexpected reflex made him shift away. He regretted it immediately.
She sat there, openhearted. She had been crying, and she wasn't afraid to cry in front of him.
She was always so aware of his presence when she was near him, a kind of awareness that was not suitable for 'the end of the world'. She tried to hide it. She would never let it show, it wasn't her place. It would never be her place, she already learned that. Although she learned so many more valuable things since the happening: how not to feel, how not to care, how not to be afraid.
But with him she could only pretend not to feel, not to care or not to fear. Pretend that it didn't hurt, that tiny pinch in her guts when he moved away from her casual unplanned (wasn't it?) physical contact, and the sense of loss whenever he was away.
Days, weeks, months, years, had gone by since everything she knew fell apart. She gave up on keeping track. Doesn't matter. The days go by without them realizing it, but the clock is still ticking nervously. What matters is that she was alone to fend for herself always.
She would never assume that there would be a possibility of depending again on someone else, although she did depend on him at certain times. She knew she could. She had been so weak, and she felt ashamed of being week. Those days were over.
Still she feared him. She feared that he would decide to leave again without even a second thought about her. It happened once and it crushed her. So, she pretended she wasn't crushed. Anyway, why would he give a second thought about her? He owed her nothing, he owed nothing to anyone. And that was the one thing that she loved about him. That, and the fact the he knew who she was.
So they just sat there, on the floor of a random room in a random abandoned southern old farmhouse with a story of pain between them.
They looked in each other's eyes. She looked sad, but a smile still curled in her lips, although her eyes showed dismay. And he felt horrible. She deserved better. A beautiful house, a nice car, a fulfilling job, a loving husband, a bubbly baby… She deserved to be happy.
«Happy» he thought… such a strange word in a strange place. There was so much loss between them, so much death. To him it had always been that way, he was used to it, it was normal. It was normal not to be cared for and not be allowed to care.
But she deserved better.
He suddenly wondered if she had the need to be held or to be loved, if she missed it. He didn't miss it. How could he miss something he had never had? The only human contact he ever remembered was the knuckles of his father's heavy hand on his temple, or his brother's rough boots kicking his stomach.
He remembered the times he had made love to women. They didn't touch him. They just bent over as he thrust his anger away. Sometimes he couldn't even find his release this way. He just dwelled on the violence of the act, and then let it go, feeding on the feeling of punishment for not consenting himself to climax.
She deserved better than being fucked from behind by a savage.
The thought made him slightly suffocate on a sigh. Made him aware of the uneasy feeling that was growing on his chest and lower inside his pants. «A savage, you're just a savage, you filthy creep».
He shifted uncomfortably and let his left hand rest on his bended knee. The other hand, trying awkwardly and discreetly to arrange his belt and his crotch area. She carefully and delicately laid her hand on his. Her eyes, blue and ice cold changed to something different, something he couldn't read. Her hand so thin and fragile, her skin so soft and warm, on his hand so rough and dirty. How could she have such clean nails, how was that even possible?
They had touched in other occasions. Most of them in a quick and shy manner, but as her hand lingered on his he felt an urging desire, of being touched and mostly of being touched by her. He had missed her too much without realizing it. She had been a different person for the last couple of months, he only had her back for no more than a day, and he felt something inside him that he wasn't familiar with. He felt a sense of starvation that almost made him dizzy.
He stood suddenly "what the fuck is wrong with you?" He could not conceal the nervousness in his high pitch tone. He paced a few quick steps around himself and darted off the room, leaving her shaking her head, voicing mute words. And then, he left the house.
Without him there she didn't have to pretend. What had just happened? Her eyes watered again and her lungs hurt. She could not breathe, but she tried to.
She thought she had touched his hand as a friend… He looked troubled, and in a way, it felt good not having to be the only one in need of comfort at the moment; she just wanted to let him know that she was there for him. Did she fail at pretending that there was nothing else?
Did he leave her? Was she alone again now? She could live with that… just as soon as she was able to breathe again… maybe if she laid on the floor it would stop hurting so much… she had done it before. So she did. She laid face down, arms and legs stretched out, and she kept very still, eyes wide open so the tears wouldn't flow, until she lost track of time.