Tag: random

Stay, stay a little while…

“Hey,” a tired, soft greeting, she slips into the sofa, cotton pajamas frictionless against her pale, milky skin. Her creamy hair falling to one side, she cocks her head to look at him.

            “Hey,” he replies.

 

Sometimes I think about him, too. It’s weird that. You stupid bastard, you. Goddamn you, you’re kind of charming sometimes, only sometimes. And I miss sitting next to you, you make class bearable. Now, that’s taking it too far.

 

I liked that sword of hers. She swung it with such ease and grace, it was elegant. I liked that show, I really did. It was so warm and so…warm.

 

I smell like that perfume grandmother sends from China, from the depth of some murky pool, perfume to cover the stench of death. Ceaseless reaper of souls, take mine, will you?

 

Oh god, oh god, oh god. OH GOD!

 

Were you thinking what I was thinking?

 

“Take my hand, stay with me a little while, stay right here with me.” He took her hands, forehead against hers, looking at her, pleading, those eyes of his. A gentle wind rustles the leaves, billowing across the endless plains of grass. Was he just lonely? High above the shimmering stars glittered and danced, across the ebony halls of space, the empty of the sky, the silent oceans of waves upon waves of light, stretching from the end of the universe to another, the enormity in which he was only a small part, a small part of a bigger whole. He pleads. “Stay. Stay right here.”

            She nods, she nods, she nods, she will stay, “I will stay.” She assures him, gripping his hand tighter, she will stay. Because she wants to, for his sake? Because she wants. She’s staying, because she wants to. She wants to, she wants to be here, right here, with him, under the weight of a dying world, under the weight of her own foolishness, the weight of everything in her little world, the weight of it all crashing down, for him, for him, those pleading eyes, those hollow eyes. They need to be filled, like a mold, like a mold and she’ll pour herself in, fill them, stay with him.

            “I will stay.” And the sadness, sweetest smile creeps across his lips, and maybe, maybe he’s found happiness. Only after knowing true despair will one know true happiness. The emptiness at the bottom of that well, that deep, abysmal well, that was his, that was his. What did he drop down there, what did he give, what did he give to be apart of this world, what did he give that he can’t get back now? He grapples, reaches, searches and found her hand, her hand. And as he stands, here, there, here and there, under the blue blanket of the sky, the eerie quiet and echoing love of her words, he smiles, smiles to himself. He’s found it. No, no, she found it for him, reached down that well and emerged, radiant, wet, and in her hands, she’s found it, found what he once lost. Himself? Maybe, maybe a chipped self.

 

My eyes are itchy, dry? Tired? I sleep, I sleep now. Finally, it seems, I sleep.

Mondays are terrible…

Monday morning, woke up with a headache, a jarring pain in his back and a slight toothache, one of his molars, maybe. The apartment was cold, icy air seeped between the cracks, percolating through the frosted windows and creaking floorboards, their silent, delicate fingers tugging hungrily at his skin as he lumbered to the bathroom. Chipped tiles and a malfunctioning toilet he’s been trying to fix for ages, a tiny tub and aged shower curtains that were, at one point, white adorned his lonely bathroom. A single toothbrush sat in a cup, he turned the hot water on, metallic knob painfully cold to the touch, sent a shiver down his spin, digging beneath the shirt he slept in and his boxers.

 

He’s bound by company regulations to the same white, collared shirt, the same fading red tie, the same worn and beleaguered suit, the same listless shoes, the same morose and repetitive lifestyle no one warned him of back in college. He counts, in fact, the number of days he spend toiling in that godforsaken cubicle, bent over numbers and papers, gum wrappers and coffee cups, for some invisible purpose. That’s a lie, a lie he tells himself, a lie to maintain his sanity, because he knows, knows in the back of his mind that there is no purpose.

 

He stepped out at a quarter to eight, slightly early but not too much to make a difference. Mass transit eats time, the mysterious underground tunnels swallowing eons and eons of time, some secret it keeps, mute, dank and alluring as rickety, squealing trains traversed its tunnels. He waved to Jeff, his doorman, a quick nod to Ms. Bentley walking her dogs (the frail, old woman amazed him, up earlier than he, quicker and far more nimble than he, owns more dogs that he has shoes), caught a flash of April, a waitress from the corner diner that haunts his imagination, something he’s too embarrassed to think about without the deep, dark cover of night and sleep. He’s always wanted to stop inside, but never mustered up the courage to even maintain a momentary glance in her direction. So, he buys coffee from a deli a block further.