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monaboyd Dec. 30th, 2006 11:05 pm)
hyacinth-sky747.livejournal.com posting in monaboyd Dec. 30th, 2006 11:05 pm)Idiosyncrasies
d/b
Disclaimer: Gosh, none of this is true.
“Your front tire, I think it needs air,” he said as he settled into his make-up chair.
It was too early in the morning to worry about tires. I put milk in his tea, two spoonfuls of sugar, didn’t stir it. He smiled and sipped, sighed with pleasure.
~*~
Just a car door slamming, the bottom door whining open and shut and footsteps on the stairs, footsteps that don’t stop at the second floor but continue, that spiral up, and a hand, a hand made into a fist, and knocking quietly on my red door. His car, his footsteps, his hand. Footsteps that fall slowly and mournfully, head bent down, thinking thoughts I can only guess at, perhaps mundane, slow and sluggish, or perhaps they fall in wild turbulence, clouding his mind and weighing down his head. His hands stuffed into his pockets despite the warming air. Is he thinking-What will I wear tomorrow? What will I wear? Shall I cut my hair?-
I open the door to him and he’s looking down, just for an instant, like he’s making sure he has shoes on. He looks at me through the hair that has slid down his forehead. He says, “Hey buddy,” his standard greeting. I am desperate for him to say something a thousand times more profound. Say something that will set my life in motion, or stop it. Has anyone ever said words like that? Do they exist? He wouldn’t say those words anyway. He doesn’t know how.
So, I have two choices. I can respond in a sunny, sing-song, “hello!” Like everything is normal, like I’m normal. Or I can swallow my voice down, keep it deep down where it won’t betray me. I’ve never been good at being normal.
~*~
I put my cigarette in the ash tray and he picked it up and stubbed it completely out.
“You never put your cigarettes all the way out,” he said. And I never pull completely into a parking space; never stop completely at stop signs. These are the things about me that irritate him. Or do they amuse him?
He never reads a whole book, just bits and pieces, or he watches the movie, gets the general idea and then talks like an expert on many subjects, sports, philosophy, film, history, literature, art, politics. He chastises me for not reading the newspaper. I’m woefully out of date.
At the pub I lost my voice. Everyone just talked and talked and for moments at a time I couldn’t understand them, wondered if, perhaps, they were speaking another language. Sometimes the doors to myself just shut. Sometimes it frightens me. Sometimes I think I’ll forget English and all the sounds will blend into one another in a long string of babble and I’ll never understand anyone again.
I look out the window at the dark street corner. The red lights spill into the mist. I try to memorize the way the cars are stopped there, the sounds they make, the exhaust they bleed. It seems important that I remember them, like it sometimes seems important that I remember the curves of my lovers’ ears. I stroke my finger tips over them again and again, hoping that this time I won’t forget. Fingers have poor memories.
Sometimes when I forget how to talk it takes such a grand effort to get going again. Even when I am ready I’m afraid no one will be ready to hear me. Won’t they think it odd that I’ve finally thought of something to say? And why would I pipe up to say this, or that?
I follow him up the stairs to his flat. He always walks so slowly and deliberately, hands in his felt-lined pockets, head down. He pauses on the landing and put his hand on my back.
“Are you okay?”
My voice is all rusty. “Oh yes, I’m fine.” My tone is sunny and mystified that anyone should ask. Surely it’s the height of reason to sit silently for two hours at a pub.
The pockets of his pea-coat are felt-lined. I know, because I’ve mistaken his jacket for my own. Those were joyful, forbidden moments, putting my hands where his hands should be.
~*~
There is crap-all on the television but we watch it as if we are morbidly interested in middle-class American sitcoms. At one o’clock his head falls heavily into my lap. My heart beats this fast. He pokes at a discoloration on my arm and tut-tuts.
“Oh, it’s just a bruise,” I say. Though I suddenly wish it were a gash the size of London and he would lean over me and kiss my fevered brow. I just want to make him feel something.
My voice dies then. It dies until two o’clock when I say I should go and lean over him to grab my jumper. His mouth is open and it stays open while he kisses me. I’m trembling so. He slides off the couch, onto his knees on the floor.
“Are you alright? Are you crying?”
“No. No, I’m just shaking a bit. I’m cold.” It’s a lie. It’s 300 degrees in here at least. But I’m not crying.
He kisses me again and hugs me and squashes me and bruises my neck with his lips. He pulls back.
“Fuck, you bruise easily. I shouldn’t do that.”
“Do it,” I say. Fuck, my voice has gone to shit.
We play like that for an hour. My hair gets all mussed. He’s all sweaty over me. Soft cheeks and hair, tiny bum, urgent sucking kiss. I don’t say a thing.
I don’t say a thing except “Goodbye”. That, on the porch, while the sun is rising. It’s so hot, my shirt sticks to my skin.
He tucks his hands into his pockets, looks at the ground and then at me.
“Birds,” he says and nods his head in the direction of the trees. They are singing in a chorus.
I nod and fumble with my car keys. There is frost on the windshield and as I drive home I see every painting I’ve ever loved, hear every song that I’ve sung along to and the exhaust of my car smells like him.
It could have been. It nearly was. Hell, for that one night, it was. I am. You are. Nous etions.
d/b
Disclaimer: Gosh, none of this is true.
“Your front tire, I think it needs air,” he said as he settled into his make-up chair.
It was too early in the morning to worry about tires. I put milk in his tea, two spoonfuls of sugar, didn’t stir it. He smiled and sipped, sighed with pleasure.
~*~
Just a car door slamming, the bottom door whining open and shut and footsteps on the stairs, footsteps that don’t stop at the second floor but continue, that spiral up, and a hand, a hand made into a fist, and knocking quietly on my red door. His car, his footsteps, his hand. Footsteps that fall slowly and mournfully, head bent down, thinking thoughts I can only guess at, perhaps mundane, slow and sluggish, or perhaps they fall in wild turbulence, clouding his mind and weighing down his head. His hands stuffed into his pockets despite the warming air. Is he thinking-What will I wear tomorrow? What will I wear? Shall I cut my hair?-
I open the door to him and he’s looking down, just for an instant, like he’s making sure he has shoes on. He looks at me through the hair that has slid down his forehead. He says, “Hey buddy,” his standard greeting. I am desperate for him to say something a thousand times more profound. Say something that will set my life in motion, or stop it. Has anyone ever said words like that? Do they exist? He wouldn’t say those words anyway. He doesn’t know how.
So, I have two choices. I can respond in a sunny, sing-song, “hello!” Like everything is normal, like I’m normal. Or I can swallow my voice down, keep it deep down where it won’t betray me. I’ve never been good at being normal.
~*~
I put my cigarette in the ash tray and he picked it up and stubbed it completely out.
“You never put your cigarettes all the way out,” he said. And I never pull completely into a parking space; never stop completely at stop signs. These are the things about me that irritate him. Or do they amuse him?
He never reads a whole book, just bits and pieces, or he watches the movie, gets the general idea and then talks like an expert on many subjects, sports, philosophy, film, history, literature, art, politics. He chastises me for not reading the newspaper. I’m woefully out of date.
At the pub I lost my voice. Everyone just talked and talked and for moments at a time I couldn’t understand them, wondered if, perhaps, they were speaking another language. Sometimes the doors to myself just shut. Sometimes it frightens me. Sometimes I think I’ll forget English and all the sounds will blend into one another in a long string of babble and I’ll never understand anyone again.
I look out the window at the dark street corner. The red lights spill into the mist. I try to memorize the way the cars are stopped there, the sounds they make, the exhaust they bleed. It seems important that I remember them, like it sometimes seems important that I remember the curves of my lovers’ ears. I stroke my finger tips over them again and again, hoping that this time I won’t forget. Fingers have poor memories.
Sometimes when I forget how to talk it takes such a grand effort to get going again. Even when I am ready I’m afraid no one will be ready to hear me. Won’t they think it odd that I’ve finally thought of something to say? And why would I pipe up to say this, or that?
I follow him up the stairs to his flat. He always walks so slowly and deliberately, hands in his felt-lined pockets, head down. He pauses on the landing and put his hand on my back.
“Are you okay?”
My voice is all rusty. “Oh yes, I’m fine.” My tone is sunny and mystified that anyone should ask. Surely it’s the height of reason to sit silently for two hours at a pub.
The pockets of his pea-coat are felt-lined. I know, because I’ve mistaken his jacket for my own. Those were joyful, forbidden moments, putting my hands where his hands should be.
~*~
There is crap-all on the television but we watch it as if we are morbidly interested in middle-class American sitcoms. At one o’clock his head falls heavily into my lap. My heart beats this fast. He pokes at a discoloration on my arm and tut-tuts.
“Oh, it’s just a bruise,” I say. Though I suddenly wish it were a gash the size of London and he would lean over me and kiss my fevered brow. I just want to make him feel something.
My voice dies then. It dies until two o’clock when I say I should go and lean over him to grab my jumper. His mouth is open and it stays open while he kisses me. I’m trembling so. He slides off the couch, onto his knees on the floor.
“Are you alright? Are you crying?”
“No. No, I’m just shaking a bit. I’m cold.” It’s a lie. It’s 300 degrees in here at least. But I’m not crying.
He kisses me again and hugs me and squashes me and bruises my neck with his lips. He pulls back.
“Fuck, you bruise easily. I shouldn’t do that.”
“Do it,” I say. Fuck, my voice has gone to shit.
We play like that for an hour. My hair gets all mussed. He’s all sweaty over me. Soft cheeks and hair, tiny bum, urgent sucking kiss. I don’t say a thing.
I don’t say a thing except “Goodbye”. That, on the porch, while the sun is rising. It’s so hot, my shirt sticks to my skin.
He tucks his hands into his pockets, looks at the ground and then at me.
“Birds,” he says and nods his head in the direction of the trees. They are singing in a chorus.
I nod and fumble with my car keys. There is frost on the windshield and as I drive home I see every painting I’ve ever loved, hear every song that I’ve sung along to and the exhaust of my car smells like him.
It could have been. It nearly was. Hell, for that one night, it was. I am. You are. Nous etions.
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From:
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And this...
I nod and fumble with my car keys. There is frost on the windshield and as I drive home I see every painting I’ve ever loved, hear every song that I’ve sung along to and the exhaust of my car smells like him.
...was perfect. Made me absolutely ache, as did the final line.
Thank you so much for sharing this. : )
From:
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From:
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From:
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It could have been. It nearly was. Hell, for that one night, it was.
With a few well chosen words, I'm broken.
Kerry =)