(![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
hyacinth-sky747.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
monaboyd Sep. 23rd, 2006 11:17 pm)
hyacinth-sky747.livejournal.com posting in monaboyd Sep. 23rd, 2006 11:17 pm)A Chance Patch of Sunlight
d/b
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction.
For Erin.
“Love is too dangerous. I will not tangle with it.”
The lane was filled with rippling puddles and the trees shook their branches at us, raining down drops of water. I walked slowly. I was a little sore and the bricks were slippery. You slid along them, putting your hand on my arm now and again to steady yourself. I knew what you were thinking of. You were thinking about love.
The clouds were racing and racing overhead, great waterfalls of mists unfurling. Then there was sunlight splattering all over the pavement. You ran to stand in a patch of it but when you got there it was gone. You hung your head in disappointment for a moment and my heart gave a funny little ache. I wanted you to have it. I wanted you to have whatever you wanted and there was so much I wasn’t able to give you.
You smiled then, waited for me to catch up.
“I can see myself in the water. I look so fat.” My shoes tapped loudly on the stones. They gave off a hollow, mournful sound that reminded me of church on Sundays. I looked into your puddle but I couldn’t see myself. I knew that another day I would have been able to, on a day that I could look properly at things, but I just saw the sandy bottom of the puddle and some bloated worms floating there.
“Are you hungry? Can I buy you a muffin?”
I looked into your eyes. They were lit with some sort of radiance. I thought I could see a candle flame in them. I thought I could see your memory of the single candle on the table last night.
I wasn’t hungry. I wanted to hold your hand.
Your lips made the movements of a kiss. I felt it wash over my face. You put your hands in your pockets and bumped your arm against mine. We continued walking, consciously not touching, my hands white and cold in the wind.
We were going to meet an acquaintance of yours. He was some sort of artist and his flat was cold and gray. It smelled like turpentine and burnt coffee. He poured red wine into teacups and scowled at me.
He knew we were sleeping together. I could feel him measure the distance between our bodies on the bench where we were sitting. He disapproved, but I couldn’t tell if he disapproved of me or of love in general. I wanted to ask you but you wouldn’t look at me. You shifted uncomfortably on the bench.
I looked down into my teacup instead and saw my own eyes staring back me. I swallowed them; they looked so frightened.
I heard your conversation but I couldn’t make sense of it. The words jumbled all together. After awhile a realized you were speaking in German and I helped myself to more wine. I closed my eyes when I drank it. I was thinking about sheets, how the sheets looked that morning when we left them behind. They were all tangled and hilly, white and soft-looking in the gray morning light. I wanted to be there again. I wanted to be there with you, your fingers tickling my belly, your breath warm on the back of my neck.
“He is a pessimistic old cunt. I shouldn’t have brought you there.”
The sun was out fully and you waved your arms around it. I blinked in the too bright light.
“He doesn’t believe in love,” I said.
“He believes in it. He just doesn’t trust it.”
“I don’t think he believed in me.” I wanted to pinch myself to see if I was real.
You talked about bacon and tea but I only half heard you. I grabbed your elbow and headed for home.
“Mountains frighten me. If I were taller maybe they wouldn’t frighten me.”
You looked at the snowfields spread out like diamonds in the morning sun. Your hands moved as you talked, putting shadows in my eyes. You seem bigger with your shadows. I wouldn’t think you’d be afraid.
“You’re scared,” you said.
“It’s funny isn’t it? I welcome the dark. It’s the cold light of day that leaves me frozen.” I thought about that candle burning and the rain tapping and tapping on the roof and of you singing. Like a memory it sighs. Soft and warm continuing. You singing in the premature dusk. Singing to the rain, and to me, and to comfort yourself. To comfort yourself enough to open your arms to me.
When I go there, go into your arms and nuzzle my face against your sweater, I breathe in the scent of dinner and the smoke off the lone candle flame. The shades are drawn and I wish it could always be night.
“The bed is unmade,” I say.
You look around the deserted square and then you grab my hand. This is a memory, I say to myself. It’s already lost and whimsical.
How do I know these things? How do I know to feel like a watercolor of myself, washed out, nearly transparent?
The wind is dancing in the yard and the house feels like we have been gone forever. I want to fill it up, fill it up with memories of me and you. It’s so hollow and the sounds I make to fill it up are like blowing on sand to stop the incoming tide. It will never be enough.
Time is like that. It moves in, separating me from you. It’s like being capsized in a slow moving river and at first you think you can fight it, can swim against it, but you end up amazed at its power. I know if I don’t flow with it I will drown.
In that house we flailed against each other, trying not to go down. I held you. I held you once and then again and again as you tried to stop it. Your face strained with the effort of holding on to me, holding me pinned in time. My legs kicked out against the current and I sobbed once against your breastbone.
Night came on and we lit our candle. You smoked a cigarette and played with the wax.
“Can I say I’m sorry now? Before the fact?”
“Don’t be sorry.” I can see my children’s eyes dancing in the light of the flame. “Don’t be sorry. Don’t be. It was love. It is love.”
Is there a way to make my children yours?
Sometimes they toddle about and I see you in their gait. I see you when they slide in their Wellington boots on ice in the street. I imagine you are in my blood, in their blood. They look at me with that radiance in their eyes. I imagine I can cheat time, keep you going on forever.
“This is your uncle,” I say to my infant son. This is the reason you will love. It’s in your blood.
Did I do it? Did I soak my soul in you enough that I will be able to pass it along? Your fire, your whimsy? Did I rub against you hard enough? Did I keep it too secret, too safe?
Everyone smiles. There are women here, women who love us, separately and together. In unison we reach over to stroke the napes of their necks, that fragile, vulnerable place where we use to breathe against one another.
Everything is beautiful. You’re here.
d/b
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction.
For Erin.
“Love is too dangerous. I will not tangle with it.”
The lane was filled with rippling puddles and the trees shook their branches at us, raining down drops of water. I walked slowly. I was a little sore and the bricks were slippery. You slid along them, putting your hand on my arm now and again to steady yourself. I knew what you were thinking of. You were thinking about love.
The clouds were racing and racing overhead, great waterfalls of mists unfurling. Then there was sunlight splattering all over the pavement. You ran to stand in a patch of it but when you got there it was gone. You hung your head in disappointment for a moment and my heart gave a funny little ache. I wanted you to have it. I wanted you to have whatever you wanted and there was so much I wasn’t able to give you.
You smiled then, waited for me to catch up.
“I can see myself in the water. I look so fat.” My shoes tapped loudly on the stones. They gave off a hollow, mournful sound that reminded me of church on Sundays. I looked into your puddle but I couldn’t see myself. I knew that another day I would have been able to, on a day that I could look properly at things, but I just saw the sandy bottom of the puddle and some bloated worms floating there.
“Are you hungry? Can I buy you a muffin?”
I looked into your eyes. They were lit with some sort of radiance. I thought I could see a candle flame in them. I thought I could see your memory of the single candle on the table last night.
I wasn’t hungry. I wanted to hold your hand.
Your lips made the movements of a kiss. I felt it wash over my face. You put your hands in your pockets and bumped your arm against mine. We continued walking, consciously not touching, my hands white and cold in the wind.
We were going to meet an acquaintance of yours. He was some sort of artist and his flat was cold and gray. It smelled like turpentine and burnt coffee. He poured red wine into teacups and scowled at me.
He knew we were sleeping together. I could feel him measure the distance between our bodies on the bench where we were sitting. He disapproved, but I couldn’t tell if he disapproved of me or of love in general. I wanted to ask you but you wouldn’t look at me. You shifted uncomfortably on the bench.
I looked down into my teacup instead and saw my own eyes staring back me. I swallowed them; they looked so frightened.
I heard your conversation but I couldn’t make sense of it. The words jumbled all together. After awhile a realized you were speaking in German and I helped myself to more wine. I closed my eyes when I drank it. I was thinking about sheets, how the sheets looked that morning when we left them behind. They were all tangled and hilly, white and soft-looking in the gray morning light. I wanted to be there again. I wanted to be there with you, your fingers tickling my belly, your breath warm on the back of my neck.
“He is a pessimistic old cunt. I shouldn’t have brought you there.”
The sun was out fully and you waved your arms around it. I blinked in the too bright light.
“He doesn’t believe in love,” I said.
“He believes in it. He just doesn’t trust it.”
“I don’t think he believed in me.” I wanted to pinch myself to see if I was real.
You talked about bacon and tea but I only half heard you. I grabbed your elbow and headed for home.
“Mountains frighten me. If I were taller maybe they wouldn’t frighten me.”
You looked at the snowfields spread out like diamonds in the morning sun. Your hands moved as you talked, putting shadows in my eyes. You seem bigger with your shadows. I wouldn’t think you’d be afraid.
“You’re scared,” you said.
“It’s funny isn’t it? I welcome the dark. It’s the cold light of day that leaves me frozen.” I thought about that candle burning and the rain tapping and tapping on the roof and of you singing. Like a memory it sighs. Soft and warm continuing. You singing in the premature dusk. Singing to the rain, and to me, and to comfort yourself. To comfort yourself enough to open your arms to me.
When I go there, go into your arms and nuzzle my face against your sweater, I breathe in the scent of dinner and the smoke off the lone candle flame. The shades are drawn and I wish it could always be night.
“The bed is unmade,” I say.
You look around the deserted square and then you grab my hand. This is a memory, I say to myself. It’s already lost and whimsical.
How do I know these things? How do I know to feel like a watercolor of myself, washed out, nearly transparent?
The wind is dancing in the yard and the house feels like we have been gone forever. I want to fill it up, fill it up with memories of me and you. It’s so hollow and the sounds I make to fill it up are like blowing on sand to stop the incoming tide. It will never be enough.
Time is like that. It moves in, separating me from you. It’s like being capsized in a slow moving river and at first you think you can fight it, can swim against it, but you end up amazed at its power. I know if I don’t flow with it I will drown.
In that house we flailed against each other, trying not to go down. I held you. I held you once and then again and again as you tried to stop it. Your face strained with the effort of holding on to me, holding me pinned in time. My legs kicked out against the current and I sobbed once against your breastbone.
Night came on and we lit our candle. You smoked a cigarette and played with the wax.
“Can I say I’m sorry now? Before the fact?”
“Don’t be sorry.” I can see my children’s eyes dancing in the light of the flame. “Don’t be sorry. Don’t be. It was love. It is love.”
Is there a way to make my children yours?
Sometimes they toddle about and I see you in their gait. I see you when they slide in their Wellington boots on ice in the street. I imagine you are in my blood, in their blood. They look at me with that radiance in their eyes. I imagine I can cheat time, keep you going on forever.
“This is your uncle,” I say to my infant son. This is the reason you will love. It’s in your blood.
Did I do it? Did I soak my soul in you enough that I will be able to pass it along? Your fire, your whimsy? Did I rub against you hard enough? Did I keep it too secret, too safe?
Everyone smiles. There are women here, women who love us, separately and together. In unison we reach over to stroke the napes of their necks, that fragile, vulnerable place where we use to breathe against one another.
Everything is beautiful. You’re here.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
From:
no subject
this is so gorgeous, love. i don't know how you do it, but you can move me to tears easier than anyone or any thing. ♥
From:
no subject
Did I soak my soul in you enough that I will be able to pass it along?
Just...woah. Definitely deserves a reread.
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
Did I do it? Did I soak my soul in you enough that I will be able to pass it along? Your fire, your whimsy? Did I rub against you hard enough? Did I keep it too secret, too safe?
Jesus God All Mighty. There's too much to feel, to absorb. There's loss, regret, wistfulness, hope and love. Most assuredly there is love.
you end up amazed at its power
that sums up exactly what I think about your writing.
Kerry =)
From:
no subject
From:
no subject