A/N: Okay, well big emo-fic right here! I love the parodies and I'm working mostly on them right now, but I got all angsty last night and this surfaced. Have fun with it...
They're worried about me.
I see it in their looks, their anxious glances. They're scared of my apathy, the way I never talk about her anymore. They think I'm trying to block out the pain of remembering my Angel.
I don't know whether they're right or not.
It's like her name won't form on my tongue anymore. I can't say it without effort, like trying to swear after years of abstaining from cursing. I feel guilty. Am I betraying her? I don't think I am. It's not her memory I'm scared of: it's the emotion that comes with it.
I've gone out with a few guys. Kissed some of them, gone a little farther with others. But not all the way, not even close. I can't really explain why; the seemingly obvious reason, at first, was that every time I considered it, even thought about the idea, my stomach cramped and I felt like I was slapping Angel in the face. At first it seemed like I was cheating on her, cheating on everything we had together. But after a while, as her death moved farther and farther back in time and I moved farther and farther away, I found a new reason, one I hadn't even realized existed.
Every man I kissed, every man I touched…at that one point, that one point when you come to the crossroads and you have to decide what happens next—whenever I get to that point with anyone, they change; they stop being them and change into her…into Angel. They all turn into Angel at that one moment. They all become the person who I know—though sometimes I wish I didn't—was the love of my life. And when they change into Angel, I can't touch them anymore. It's like touching a corpse; they revolt me, so I break away and move on. And anyway, I have a feeling that, whether or not they still were Angel to me, making love to someone else would be blasphemous. Maybe not in the conventional sense, but in the sense of respect for Angel. Respect and grief: they would so solemn. Angel never understood solemnity. She didn't feel that there was time for them in life. I'm inclined to agree with her.
Sometimes my memories of Angel, when they leak into my brain at night and swirl like gas fumes, seem unreal. Our love seems unreal: did it ever truly exist? Were we scared by time and its restrictions, merely hoping that we could keep this happiness alive for as long as we both lasted? Were we really in love with each other…or with being in love? Sometimes I want to doubt, I want to find holes in emotions, and I want to find a way out of the pain of missing her and missing the comfort she might have provided in my missing of her…
But then I'm lying, looking for an easing in the grief that comes from losing a lover—my lover. I know in that locked part of my heart that I loved Angel like few people in the world ever have a chance to love anyone; what we had was beyond true, it was more sacred than I think either one of us could appreciate. But maybe it would have become less special if we'd appreciated it instead of simply accepting it like we did. Love so easily understood is the best kind, the rarest kind. Angel and I had that.
It's not that I keep the memories out; it's more that I try to view them cold, watching them but without feeling. I might as well attempt to quench thirst without liquid. It could be easier. Angel always made me feel more than I could comprehend at a time; even in memory, she doesn't fail. I cry only when I'm truly alone, only when no one can see, including me: in my sleep.
I'm kissing her, and it tastes like lipstick and wintergreen gum and New York air and Angel, such a taste as Angel…the inside and outside of her mouth are so beautiful, works of art in both sight and taste. My tongue tangles with hers and I feel her hands flat on my back, pressing me to her just as my arms pull her towards my body. I love her so much, I want her so much…her hands are moving up to my neck, and now the tips of her fingers on her right hand are lingering gently on my jaw, as though she's testing whether I'm real, whether we're real…I hoist her up suddenly, desperate for more contact, and her legs are wrapped around my waist, anchoring her against me. I'm trying to embrace every inch of her, every inch of my Angel, and she's whispering into my mouth, her tongue forming the words and passing them directly to mine as we kiss. We're not separate now, not separate beings but one, one love, one breath, one life…
And then I wake from the memory in a cold sweat, my chest heaving and my hands clenched so tightly that there are drops of blood on my jeans where my nails have pierced my palms. No more are we one life, but rather half a life, bobbing slowly through time, drawing ever closer to its missing piece…
Everyone's worried about me. Maureen and Joanne, Mark and Mimi, Roger especially. Even Benny. Roger knows what it's like to feel that division, one life of love torn apart…but he still has Mimi, so he doesn't know what it feels like for the ragged edges of your half-life to be worn down by time. He tries to understand, but I don't let him. It's not for him to know. He was given another chance with the person her loves; trying to understand what it would be like if he hadn't is not a worthy task for him.
I have a feeling that Angel is watching me, just as they are. But somehow, she's not worried. She's just waiting.