Apron Strings

-

apron strings
hanging empty
crazy things

my body tells me
i want someone
to tie to my
lonely apron strings

.
.
.

You smell mint on her breath and wonder if she uses a red toothbrush - red rubs off an apple when she takes a bite, coloring her quivering lips. Flushed cheeks. A weak chin. Pearls for teeth. Eyes like the sea on a cloudy day. Dark, brown locks.

She is both rainfall and sunshine and the way autumn leaves float gently to the ground, shifting from one foot to another, restless in her scuffed Mary Janes. She is everything a dream is made of and nothing in a world where dreams don't exist.

Your world.

The traffic light changes. Ping! She looks both ways before crossing the street and skips past a row of yellow taxicabs. There is a shop on the corner selling vinyl records and phonographs at half price, anachronistic in the bustling city sprawl. Around that corner, she disappears.

You wait. She could have dropped a lucky bottle cap on the sidewalk - she might come back for it. Five seconds, three seconds, two seconds, one.

Ping! Green means go. The wind blows an old sixties tune across the road:

Don't worry, baby...

The music fights to be heard above the din of screeching tires, as if it means to console; hopes to make up for the way she left you with little more than a picture of ribbons in her hair and a wrinkled party dress, with a nameless face when you've already seen one too many

...everything will turn out alright.

You clench your fists and think, liar.'

Don't worry, baby.



Deep in someone's coat pocket, a cellphone rings persistently. The shrill noise brings you back to here - a deserted alley, where pigeons coo from the rafters overhead - and now.


Trinity, we have to go.

There is a hand on your shoulder. You tense up.

That was Morpheus, he continues.

Has the captain confirmed...?

The target's clean. Mission accomplished. The corner of his mouth hints at a grin. You can tell he is tired and wants to go home.

Let's get out of here, then.

He nods and leads the way to the nearest public phone booth.



Later in the evening, after dinner, he will return to the room he shares with you and find you crying. You will be sitting on the bed with your knees pressed to your chest, face buried in sweaty palms.

You will keep your head in your hands to give them something to hold until he gets there. Some days, the way they reach out and grasp nothing but dust particles and empty space frightens you.

He will walk quickly to your side and lace his fingers with yours, pull you into his arms, stop you from shaking. He will lay you down on the cot and you will ask him if he'd seen her.



You will hold the air responsible for the break in your voice - reason out that the cold dries your throat; that the cabin's temperature moves you to speak in hoarse whispers. That the despair seeping through the cracks between syllables has nothing to do with your tearstained cheeks.

Why so bitter, lady?

And he will hold you close, nuzzle the back of your neck, kiss your shoulder and fall asleep as you tell yourself that you can't give up on what never really existed in the first place.



But that she had looked just like him - with her smile so sad - breaks your heart.



-

I don't own the Matirx. Title and song lyrics (italicized) are from Everything But The Girl's Apron Strings and the Beach Boy's Don't Worry Baby, in that order.

Feedback would be nice.