Aspiration
"And eventually she'll die with his name on her lips, and you'll put a flower on her grave…"
-
And it's dark, getting closer to sunrise,
But in the drunken depths of your heart, it's only ten forty-two.
She stands, just behind the lip of the counter,
The words in the shadows of her bar have no single meaning at all.
And her smiles say something besides the cheerful words that she wears.
-
1.
You're tumbling low, real low, the amber ripping down your throat and biting against your tongue. The clock ticks, slowly, it gets slower, slower, slower, and slower still. She smokes—though, you never really took note of it before. And on her hands there are rings, slow silver moonlit bands that clink against the flute of her glass as she silently cheers you welcome, and then swallows the wine like you imagine she'd swallow the tepid stickiness of blood. She coughs as some of it spills over her lips, Scarlett—'blood,' you think—and it tumbles over her chin, a droplet resting in a perfect oval in the smooth dip of her throat. She laughs quietly, a drunken murmur that rumbles through her chest and up her throat in a gurgle. Her hand lazily gestures to the tawny vial to your right.
(You want her to wipe it off. You want to kiss it off. You want her to die. You want her to kill you.)
"Want another?" she smiles cockily, twisting her hair between two fingers before leveling her hands soothingly over the rumpled white fabric of her shirt. You can just nod, barely there but still in time. Just not aware… You suppose it's dangerous, being out this late with her serving you behind the counter, but this is what you can get.
(All in all, you want her to be safe…)
'Wait…that's not it,'
She pours another stream into your glass, and you snatch a hurried wink from her as she mumbles to another customer slumped in a drunken stupor a couple stools down.
(You want her to want you, the same way you want her…)
'Yeah…you got it…'
But she's smiling so softly at you, and her eyes are turned down towards the doorway, etched so far away in the past, you don't even want to know how she's sees you in front of her.
(She doesn't)
You suddenly wish you're all she can see.
But it's a wish.
And she's blind to the shooting stars needling in silver threads inside of your chest.
She smiles again, eyes lowering, softening, and putty. She's soft resilient putty, but not in your hands.
No, never in yours…
-
The cigarette smoke coils and waltzes around her fingers,
And the symmetric pull of her mouth draws you to the rim,
But only enough to see the blue dots cry,
Behind a silken curtain of brown that covers the snow
It's steadily falling, and someday, you'd like to pull it back, if only she'd let you.
-
2.
There are spots, difficult little precision points in her eyes that can't really say anything but 'want some more?' in that teasing snigger she has gurgling out of her throat. Which to her you reply with a wry grin and the tapping of two black gloved fingers, "Always"—(Always, I want you, my love,)—which she will never fully understand the full intention of your rumbling words.
It's later now, and she makes no move to shoo you out of the building into the snow, instead opting to shove the last customers out with a few threats and a playful prize winning smirk.
But she leaves you inside to contemplate the wavering reflection of her distorted face, waving optimistically back to you on the curved flute of the wine glass. She leaves you to see yourself swimming in red.
It's been hours since you've moved, but then she slumps against the wall, chuckling lightly as the muffled angry voices of drunks waver through the bolted door and you feel like it's time to go. Now.
But her arms trap you inside a cocoon of humid shelter, and her eyes mist over the reflection of your glasses. That's when you grab her arm before it reaches the corner of black covering your eyes, and she frowns distastefully, snorting her obvious displeasure. You make a show of glancing at the door, but it has no chance of working because she's still got you against the bar, and…the wine is still unfinished. She puts out the cigarette dangling uselessly from her mouth, crushing it against the smooth marred surface of the tool to her left. You tip an avid wolfish grin; pull her wrist in for a light butterfly's kiss.
And the wine remains fragmentary on the counter, while your shirt drapes in fluid ripples on her shoulders the next morning. Someone knocks on the front door; she stiffens, but is hopeful. The scratching of paper on wood makes you sigh.
Paperboy…
Something tells you between bitter gulps of day old hot coffee, that it had been someone else she'd seen knocking on the door. Someone else kissing her skin under the sheets, someone else speaking in low tones, someone else's bright blue eyes roaming over toned skin.
Someone else's name whispered between clenched teeth.
Not yours; No, never yours.
-
It's been weeks, since you last touched her,
But the images are running, and they don't want to stop 'till they're done.
The yellow lights are just flickering and the singer looks over and stops,
His words lull into the doorway, swiftly sidestepping the empty glass to your right,
While her hand holds the tonic like you would the edge of a cliff.
-
3.
You haven't touched her since.
It's an awkward silence, one that whips through the air with a speed that strangles even the strongest man. Stomach lurching, you toss back another shot, needles in your throat. She's laughing…smiling.
And, you're fucking drowning.
It's Ten 'O Clock, the gray shadows dancing through the windows, wavering fingers creeping across the pallid drunken skin of the other customers. .
Her eyes stare through the doorway, and she mouths to the words of the song, swinging her wrist lightly over the tips of hot chocolate hair. (Hair that you kissed…) She whispers to an invisible falling star, eyes closing shut. And you sigh.
He never comes, 'and I'll always be here…' but everyone knows that she's never been waiting for you.
No. Not ever. –And eventually she'll die, with his name on her lips—'but not mine. Never mine…'
She laughs, giggling, lips fluttering against the pale palm of her hand as she lowers her lids demurely before smiling at you, one eye winking impishly before she sips the Gin and Tonic with exaggerated gusto.
She's still serving though, tittering in a motherly chuckle as she manages to sprinkle only half of your drink in the small glass before taking three oversized gulps of her own, eyes shooting a sparkling lie. (I'm okay, sweetie, I'm okay.) And you shake your head. 'No…you're not. You're really not…"
You think about taking it away. –Want to scream it in her ear: 'Let me be with you! Please! Let me kiss your lips, and make you forget… There is only me and you. Please!?"
No. You cannot take the drink from her tremulous hands.
It's her rope.
And she's your ladder, the one that's rusted and broken.
One that you'll never climb again…
Her knuckles are pale.
You leave a tip; dip your head in solitary goodbye.
She nods. "I'll be waiting for you, tomorrow."
'Liar! You lying bitch!'
You want to say. But you don't, and just shuffle, the piano lingering in your mouth like the sour taste of alcohol beneath your tongue.
Bitter.
But oh, she's waiting for you, waiting to see your amble through the front door carelessly. Waiting for you.
No.
'Never me…' you think.
Never you…
-
The song whispers her soundtrack and you stand up, trying to ask her to dance.
But, someone calls, from the shady lit corner,
And by the flush on her face, he looks like he's more than her friend.
You touch her hair, when she suddenly strides by,
And that's when you realize that the time is most likely, years after ten.
-
4,
She sings sometimes, lilting and curving her tongue in rippled rivets of words that you can't bear to understand, lest listen to. Her hair, it dances along with her, with her heart shaped lips and playful eyes that curve in kittenish squints at the ends.
A song plays. You stand, reach out.
'Be with me'
And she nods, slowly, inch by inch scraping her heels closer until someone calls her name. It's rough, grated, and she withholds a wink, you know it. Her head tilts,
'I'm so sorry…' And you apologize to yourself.
For thinking that she won't hear him.
To thinking that you could be in the picture.
For imagining that she'd want to be with you. 'Be with me…'
'Oh gods…' one last look, 'please…'
A frown—your frown.
'I…love you…'
She frowns, her turn, you open the door.
"Leaving already?"
Question?
Her head tilts, cocks to the side, his arm around her waist, fingers dipping into the ripples of her dress.
You nod once. "It's late…" Your voice is heavy.
She smiles, softly, somber. "…See you tomorrow…?"
'Yes…yes…yes… I want to see you every moment…every day…'
You shake your head, walk out. She stares from the window eyes sad--oh but they know, they know....
It's late, past twelve. Too late…dark…
'I can't stay…'
'Be with me?'
Down the street, it's faded in pulsing yellow lights. You risk a look back.
She's gone.
'She was never there…'
-
You know her name, and her skin smells like the air,
But he's touching her neck, and instead you see yourself and her body,
Dancing beneath the ceiling like two perfect braids coiled and twisted close,
And with a wave, he's no longer with her, but you can't be with her,
And you might as well fall in love with a ghost.
A/N
Well,
My first attempt at a totally dramatic Rude/Tifa. But seriously? I see them as a more 'spur of the moment', couple. He wants to be with her, but she can't forget about Cloud, etc. I love drama. Love it.
Lemme' know what you think,
TMoh