Sorry this took so long. It's not the companion piece, I apologize, but I wanted to continue this a bit, see where the feelings were gonna go and if this had the potential to be continued.
The song lyrics for this chapter are from a song called Remember. The artist is Chris Peters, one of the more talented muscial people I have ever met and one of my best friends. He wrote this for his girlfriend, and it's an absolutely gorgeous song. Please, please look it up on iTunes. It's a wonderful piece, and he has a bunch of other equally amazing songs out too in his new album, California Someday Soon.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
He leaves our web before I do. I feel him move the covers out of the way and get out of bed, making an indentation in the mattress. He kisses my cheek and whispers "Good Morning," then leaves, closing the door softly behind him.
I am alone.
The walls begin to cave around me, swallowing me whole. I feel like a mouse being eaten by a cat, the guilt and sadness pointing its ugly teeth down, ready to stab and chew me up.
I have to leave. Now.
I get up in one fluid movement and leave the room, staggering slightly on my way to the kitchen. Our shared apartment is small, with pale colors on the walls. Peach. Beige. White. To make the rooms feel bigger, I think. (Because your life has no color, Princess. Shutupshutupshutup. You have no right to do this to me!)
I walk into the kitchen, wrapping my old Japanese smoking jacket tighter around my body. (It makes you look like a hooker. SHUT UP!) The kitchen is small and intensely organized. Silver pots go here, Lids go here, plates and cups go there, silverware in a drawer over there. Usually I am comforted by the sight of everything neat and tidy and correct. But now my mouth is dry and I'm shaking and about to fall over because my boyfriend, THE MAN I LOVE, is standing in the kitchen. Making breakfast. Which he never does. Immediately my mind begins the familiar track: Is he going to break up with me? Oh my God he's going to break up with me. What do I do about the apartment? I technically own it, but when he breaks up with me do I leave? What's the proper protocol on that? And then I stop and breathe. He's not going to break up with me. He loves me. And I love him. It's as simple as that.
"Hey babe." He turns, sun shining off his blonde hair. A picture of a Q-tip swims into my head, and I have to struggle not to laugh. "Hey," I respond, voice hoarse from sleep. He moves towards the table with a plate of eggs. I watch his body move and twist, the muscles shifting under the skin. My heart aches.
"Come and eat, love. I took the day off today, so we can just hang around and…" He smiles at me. I smile back at him, the ache growing stronger. "Yeah, definitely." I feel myself falling back into my old pattern of flirt-and-hide and I embrace it, willing myself to go faster, anything to stop the nagging feeling that something's different, that something's about to go horrendously, horribly wrong. "We can definitely have some fun today." I work the tried and true method: lower eyes down and up, smirk, slightly pouted lips. I take a bite of my eggs. "These are delicious." They're disgusting, but I won't tell him that. He tries so hard, and I love him, so it doesn't matter.
I look up from choking down my eggs and watch him. He's reading the paper, head bent down to the table. His hair has a mind of its own, twisting every-which-way and hiding his grey eyes, eyes that change color in the light. His hands are large, with tapered fingers that twitch against the side of the table, against his arm, along the edge of his plate. He is a being constantly in motion, a complete opposite of the Other Boy, who would---
(STOP. Just stop right now. Don't go there, Casey, don'tgotheredon'tgotheredon'tgothere.)
My boyfriend gets up, in the abrupt motion I have come to know so well. He flicks on the radio by the counter, and our kitchen is filled with the sounds of slow guitar. It's my CD of Chris Peters, the folk singer that I love and he hates, and I know what's going to happen before it does.
Do you remember the time we met?
Your friend introduced us
And you smiled when I told you my name…
I stare at him as he drops down on one knee and mouths dreaded words that fall like anvils on the kitchen tiles. They slam and boom inside my head and I can't hear him but I know what they are and what they're saying and what they mean. And as he stops speaking and smiles, the anvil words echo and create a ringing trap that I can't escape.
I guess I never sang you a love song
I guess I never sang one true
But what I've known for so long
I know what my answer will be. What it has to be.
I wanna be with you
No, I don't, I don't, I don't--!
I must.
"Yes, Peter, a thousand times yes."
I wanna be with you
I hope I can do this. Jesus, I hope I can do this.
Review, please. And look up Chris Peters! You won't regret it.
-Rhapsody
