Leaving
Priss:
You walk in. Written on your face are determination and a
trace of hope. It is misplaced and as soon as you see me you
realize that. For some reason this makes me a little sad. I
avert my eyes from your face. They trail down to your neck
and I see a pearl necklace. Its absurdity strikes me as
funny. I do not laugh. You bend down, picking up the
crumpled poster. Seemingly unconscious of my presence, you
carefully smooth it, and then hold it out towards me. I am
caught by the delicacy of your hands, the paleness of them
against the brightness of the paper. It does not fit. You
do not fit. I whip around quickly, hands pressed against
cold metal. The solidity is reassuring, but every muscle in
my body remains tight. I can still see your face in my minds
eye. What would happen now, if you were to move a step
closer, so that I could feel the heat of your body, the soft
warmth of your breath? What would happen if you were to
reach out and touch me? I do not know. But, in any case,
you don't. You walk out.
Sylia:
I turn off the ignition. I cannot imagine why I have never
been here before. Where you live has always been something
of an abstraction for me. An address, a house, nothing more.
Except it is not a house. I have seen worse places before,
I suppose; it's just that you don't live in them. I open the
door to your trailer. It is not locked. It does not have a
lock. Your back is to me. You are staring blankly at the
wall, but as you hear me enter you turn around, slowly,
reluctantly. My shoe hits something on the floor. It is a
wad of paper. On the wall, I can still see the tape and a few
raggedly torn corners attached to it. I recognize it as a
poster from your first concert. I am surprised you still
have it. I am surprised that you don't want to have
it any more. I offer it to you. I would urge you to take
it, but that would mean I cared. I would beg you to take it,
but that would be undignified. Your eyes widen, vulnerable.
For an instant I think, maybe...You turn away from me. Your
eyelids droop closed, lashes forming a soft fringe of brown
against your cheek. It is as if you are too tired, too
wearied by sadness to keep them open. But you do open
them, and stare fixedly at the ground. I reach out for you,
stroking a finger against your cheek. But only in my mind.
I am too disciplined to do so in actuality. Or simply too
afraid. The word 'eleven' meanders across my mind, but
cannot find a connection. Perhaps I do not want it to. Back
outside the air is crisp and fresh, but all I notice is how
cold it is.
Priss:
You walk in. Written on your face are determination and a
trace of hope. It is misplaced and as soon as you see me you
realize that. For some reason this makes me a little sad. I
avert my eyes from your face. They trail down to your neck
and I see a pearl necklace. Its absurdity strikes me as
funny. I do not laugh. You bend down, picking up the
crumpled poster. Seemingly unconscious of my presence, you
carefully smooth it, and then hold it out towards me. I am
caught by the delicacy of your hands, the paleness of them
against the brightness of the paper. It does not fit. You
do not fit. I whip around quickly, hands pressed against
cold metal. The solidity is reassuring, but every muscle in
my body remains tight. I can still see your face in my minds
eye. What would happen now, if you were to move a step
closer, so that I could feel the heat of your body, the soft
warmth of your breath? What would happen if you were to
reach out and touch me? I do not know. But, in any case,
you don't. You walk out.
Sylia:
I turn off the ignition. I cannot imagine why I have never
been here before. Where you live has always been something
of an abstraction for me. An address, a house, nothing more.
Except it is not a house. I have seen worse places before,
I suppose; it's just that you don't live in them. I open the
door to your trailer. It is not locked. It does not have a
lock. Your back is to me. You are staring blankly at the
wall, but as you hear me enter you turn around, slowly,
reluctantly. My shoe hits something on the floor. It is a
wad of paper. On the wall, I can still see the tape and a few
raggedly torn corners attached to it. I recognize it as a
poster from your first concert. I am surprised you still
have it. I am surprised that you don't want to have
it any more. I offer it to you. I would urge you to take
it, but that would mean I cared. I would beg you to take it,
but that would be undignified. Your eyes widen, vulnerable.
For an instant I think, maybe...You turn away from me. Your
eyelids droop closed, lashes forming a soft fringe of brown
against your cheek. It is as if you are too tired, too
wearied by sadness to keep them open. But you do open
them, and stare fixedly at the ground. I reach out for you,
stroking a finger against your cheek. But only in my mind.
I am too disciplined to do so in actuality. Or simply too
afraid. The word 'eleven' meanders across my mind, but
cannot find a connection. Perhaps I do not want it to. Back
outside the air is crisp and fresh, but all I notice is how
cold it is.