Her Flight
I am the clever lock-pick. You install the locks on your humble house only to entertain me for a few minutes. I can't blame you; I get bored very easily. But today you have no time for it and you open the door to me before I've even got the pointy end of my shuriken in it. I usher myself in like I usually do because you expect it, and there is already tea waiting for me; green and strong. Today I'm feeling sweet so I give it two heaping spoonfuls of sugar. You're looking especially serious and you haven't even said "hello," so I tell you exactly that.
"What's up Vincent? You've lost your shoe polish? Something's pinching you in a place you'd rather not mention? You've got a stalker? You ARE a stalker? You're getting annoying junk mail about politics?"
My guesses are all wrong of course, but you don't seem to have the ability to crack even a half-smile today. Your skin is white. Like porcelain. Or maybe it's your hair like spilled ink that makes it look that way. I can be awesomely observant now and then. Your mouth moves without any sound and I've never seen you this upset before, and that gets me nervous. Your eyes are scrutinizing me so intensely it's like warm fire and I need to look away. I take a huge swallow of my tea and choke on it, and you take this hideous and awkward and downright stupid chance to tell me exactly what's been on your mind. Now I am staring, and I hear a bird cry in the silent distance only to realize that it was me that made the sound.
I don't know why. Maybe it was because I never thought that I would ever receive such a confession, or maybe it was because that confession came so honestly from your lips. Maybe it was because I'm such a damn coward sometimes and when I see you struggling with some internal conflict I think that I can't possibly measure up and fight with you. Whatever it was, I walked to the door as if in a dream listening to my cup shatter on the floor behind me and I did what I'm very good at: I ran. And running has never felt so bad.