If Only You Had Grace
He called her "Grace" when they first met, because that's what she was like. Because he didn't know her name. Like some dove or swan shot like a glimmer, is shimmering. Her feet were clouds and her dress paper-thin. And her legs (the prettiest part) they're the tippling of the wine, decanted and fallaciously fine, the wringing of silk: something beautiful, something terrible. Always something, both and half.
And they're spinning way too fast, much too much for him to think. Step-step (flip-flop), the heart goes dead—stop.
There's a whisper and there's a blur (oui, monsieur?). He can hear his name resounding off, he can hear her sing—happy and carefree, like the placid makers of youth. And for a moment, he thinks he is young. Too, just for a moment, a hesitant—second or two. But enough, for him.
-x-
And that was how they met, and for a while, he was satisfied. She swam like a harlot, sometimes in his dreams, others at night (really) in his arms. But she was special, and he's finally gotten her convinced of this.
Casuistry (that was a word, a fancy one, he'd picked up here and there). That was the word, they used back at home. Not here in France, not here, where they had a different name for deceits. Here, they called it romance. Romancing the love, the lover, the loveliest girl all-time-around.
And sometimes, he wonders if it truly was her.
And like the sound of his own casket snapping down shut, the dropping of a rare-and-delicate, cut-and-dried specimen, he's all teeter-scared and wanting something else. And maybe (this is when it gets him most) there was someone better.
Waiting. Out there, for him to find. Like he found her, only better.
-x-
"Mark but this flea, and mark in this…"
She would've appreciated that. She was French, after all.
"No."
And his smile fell down flat, like the rivers during the summer-droughts. Where nothing new flows free, and all the gunk that lingered and made bereft (of substance, of sincerity) were left to be interred and grounded.
So this was deeply wounding to him, him thinking like an inventor. The Renaissance Man (she laughed at that too).
-x-
Now, Kyouya is turning another year, another leaf, another day-gone-by in his life. He can see the thinning out of his body, the depraved, hungry, aching look that his father used to have (before he died, the old one). And he especially hates how after she runs fingers through his hair, threads turn white.
Like snow.
But though—
She's still young, even in her twenty years ahead. Keeps dashing ahead, too quick (wits and bits and slivers, tempting and demanding). She's been running for too long. And without "grace".
And even now, after all this time, after all the marathons that never ceased (never waited), he still has trouble keeping up.
-x-
Soon, his gut wants to cry. He just wants out.
Soon, he leaves. And that's the end.