Post by arachibutyrophobia on Nov 10, 2007 18:54:51 GMT -5
He sat in front of me, head bowed, the thick, shaggy locks that I loved to run my fingers through so much falling over whatever expression he wore. He was the strong silent type. His face wouldn’t be a twisted mask of anguish as I suspected mine was. His face would be set, his mouth in a firm line.
But his eyes would reveal the guilt. The sorrow. The fear.
Those same eyes had been locked on hers. That hair, hair even now, after everything that had happened… oh, God, I wanted to touch it again. Feel the soft locks. Even if her hands had gone through them, too, had dragged them away from his face as they pressed against each other, as the lips now hidden from me ravaged hers, clung to hers, and sipped from hers in a passion I’d told myself he only felt for me.
Because we were best friends. We were lovers. We were in love. We were everything to each other. I though we were only for each other. He was my everything, my anything, my only. Apparently, I was the only one who felt that way.
“Why?” I choked out.
He glanced up. His dark eyes… so full of love, of angst. So open… but how could they be open? Or had they been, and mine had just been closed? Had he fallen out of love with me somewhere along the way? Had I been so blinded, so desperate, that I’d loved for the two of us?
“I – I don’t know,” he admitted.
His voice. Those deep, husky notes, telling a joke, laughing with me, whispering dirty things during a family barbeque to keep me entertained, sighing into my ear, fanning across my body in those dark hours of the night where nothing existed except for him, me and our passion. “How could you not know?”
He just stared at me.
“You know why. You just aren’t telling me. Oh, God, what did I do?”
He half came out of his chair, anger on his face for the first time since I’d walked into the storage room where he worked and caught him. But, then the anger had been towards himself. Now, he was angry with me. “Don’t you dare,” he hissed. “Whatever you do, don’t you dare blame yourself. You didn’t do anything.”
I didn’t do anything. I didn’t do anything wrong, or I didn’t do anything? Was I boring? She was prettier than me. Did the novelty of love just wear off? She was younger than me. An aspiring actress. Just like I had been when I’d been huddling in my tank top and flimsy sweater in mid-October, shivering outside under the theater’s awning, trying without success to hail a taxi. He’d given me his bulky wool sweater, the one that reached my knees. He’d put two fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply, and a few seconds later a taxi had stopped in front of me. We’d agreed that if I paid for the fare, he would get in with me and go to a popular coffee shop a few doors down from my tiny apartment.
So we went. And somewhere between the seventh and fifteenth sip of my hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and sprinkling of cinnamon and small marshmallows, I’d fallen soggy head over scruffy heels with him.
He was also in the theater business, as a writer. An artist. His works were good, good enough to pay the rent with the same steadiness that he rose in the ranks till he became fairly well known in the publishing world. I’d risen, too, but while he liked to write drama, I liked comedy. I loved the tongue-in-cheek wit, the sarcastic, biting wit, the light repartee.
“Did you take her out for coffee first?” I regretted the words when they came out for the spasm of pain that crossed over his face. Oh, he’d hurt me. But h was hurting. And I loved him; loved him always; loved him still. What hurt me hurt him, and vice versa. I had no doubt that he was tearing himself up. The stubble was there. The deep shadows in his pale face. The horror with which he’d shoved her away. The silence as I’d screamed at him, sobbed, thrown things at him, then ran away from him. And here we were, three days later. Trying to keep in one piece when we were already cracked and shattered, pieces ground into dust that was irreplaceable. Pieces that would leave gaping holes that may never be filled again.
“I don’t know what to say,” he said softly; then louder, “d**n you! What do you want to say? That I love her? Because I don’t. I love you.”
“Obviously not enough,” I cried out. “God, how would you feel if you caught me with another man? What would you do? Ho would you feel? How could you trust me, trust us? Would there be an ‘us’? Is there an ‘us’?”
“I’d try to kill him.” He said it starkly and without feeling. But, as always, it was in his eyes. “And I’d win you back. I’d do whatever it takes. Because what we have is something so d**n special that I shouldn’t be given another chance after what I did. But I want one.”
“How can I trust you after this?”
Oh, it hurt him. It hurt him deeply. Because no matter what happened, no matter how stressful life was, how angry we were, how bitterly we fought, trust was there. Trust was the unspoken bond, the one that tied us together because we knew it would never be cut, and that one tug would bring one another tumbling into each other’s arms. But if that were cut, what else could we cling to?
“I don’t know,” he said steadily, his beloved eyes - so familiar, so lost, suddenly unknown – staring into mine. “But if you can’t trust me, trust yourself.” He reached out as if he were going to touch me, lay a hand above my left breast, where my heart was thudding hard and painfully. But he stopped, let it over there, so tantalizingly close to my skin, that I wanted nothing more than to lean forward and feel the solid contact of the body I knew on mine. “Trust yourself. Listen to your heart, love. Can you do this? Can you believe in me again?”
Can I? Will I? Should I?
“Is this the end? Or do we try again?”
Fearing that it would be the biggest mistake in my life, terrified that only unimaginable pain would come from this, I told him my answer.
But his eyes would reveal the guilt. The sorrow. The fear.
Those same eyes had been locked on hers. That hair, hair even now, after everything that had happened… oh, God, I wanted to touch it again. Feel the soft locks. Even if her hands had gone through them, too, had dragged them away from his face as they pressed against each other, as the lips now hidden from me ravaged hers, clung to hers, and sipped from hers in a passion I’d told myself he only felt for me.
Because we were best friends. We were lovers. We were in love. We were everything to each other. I though we were only for each other. He was my everything, my anything, my only. Apparently, I was the only one who felt that way.
“Why?” I choked out.
He glanced up. His dark eyes… so full of love, of angst. So open… but how could they be open? Or had they been, and mine had just been closed? Had he fallen out of love with me somewhere along the way? Had I been so blinded, so desperate, that I’d loved for the two of us?
“I – I don’t know,” he admitted.
His voice. Those deep, husky notes, telling a joke, laughing with me, whispering dirty things during a family barbeque to keep me entertained, sighing into my ear, fanning across my body in those dark hours of the night where nothing existed except for him, me and our passion. “How could you not know?”
He just stared at me.
“You know why. You just aren’t telling me. Oh, God, what did I do?”
He half came out of his chair, anger on his face for the first time since I’d walked into the storage room where he worked and caught him. But, then the anger had been towards himself. Now, he was angry with me. “Don’t you dare,” he hissed. “Whatever you do, don’t you dare blame yourself. You didn’t do anything.”
I didn’t do anything. I didn’t do anything wrong, or I didn’t do anything? Was I boring? She was prettier than me. Did the novelty of love just wear off? She was younger than me. An aspiring actress. Just like I had been when I’d been huddling in my tank top and flimsy sweater in mid-October, shivering outside under the theater’s awning, trying without success to hail a taxi. He’d given me his bulky wool sweater, the one that reached my knees. He’d put two fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply, and a few seconds later a taxi had stopped in front of me. We’d agreed that if I paid for the fare, he would get in with me and go to a popular coffee shop a few doors down from my tiny apartment.
So we went. And somewhere between the seventh and fifteenth sip of my hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and sprinkling of cinnamon and small marshmallows, I’d fallen soggy head over scruffy heels with him.
He was also in the theater business, as a writer. An artist. His works were good, good enough to pay the rent with the same steadiness that he rose in the ranks till he became fairly well known in the publishing world. I’d risen, too, but while he liked to write drama, I liked comedy. I loved the tongue-in-cheek wit, the sarcastic, biting wit, the light repartee.
“Did you take her out for coffee first?” I regretted the words when they came out for the spasm of pain that crossed over his face. Oh, he’d hurt me. But h was hurting. And I loved him; loved him always; loved him still. What hurt me hurt him, and vice versa. I had no doubt that he was tearing himself up. The stubble was there. The deep shadows in his pale face. The horror with which he’d shoved her away. The silence as I’d screamed at him, sobbed, thrown things at him, then ran away from him. And here we were, three days later. Trying to keep in one piece when we were already cracked and shattered, pieces ground into dust that was irreplaceable. Pieces that would leave gaping holes that may never be filled again.
“I don’t know what to say,” he said softly; then louder, “d**n you! What do you want to say? That I love her? Because I don’t. I love you.”
“Obviously not enough,” I cried out. “God, how would you feel if you caught me with another man? What would you do? Ho would you feel? How could you trust me, trust us? Would there be an ‘us’? Is there an ‘us’?”
“I’d try to kill him.” He said it starkly and without feeling. But, as always, it was in his eyes. “And I’d win you back. I’d do whatever it takes. Because what we have is something so d**n special that I shouldn’t be given another chance after what I did. But I want one.”
“How can I trust you after this?”
Oh, it hurt him. It hurt him deeply. Because no matter what happened, no matter how stressful life was, how angry we were, how bitterly we fought, trust was there. Trust was the unspoken bond, the one that tied us together because we knew it would never be cut, and that one tug would bring one another tumbling into each other’s arms. But if that were cut, what else could we cling to?
“I don’t know,” he said steadily, his beloved eyes - so familiar, so lost, suddenly unknown – staring into mine. “But if you can’t trust me, trust yourself.” He reached out as if he were going to touch me, lay a hand above my left breast, where my heart was thudding hard and painfully. But he stopped, let it over there, so tantalizingly close to my skin, that I wanted nothing more than to lean forward and feel the solid contact of the body I knew on mine. “Trust yourself. Listen to your heart, love. Can you do this? Can you believe in me again?”
Can I? Will I? Should I?
“Is this the end? Or do we try again?”
Fearing that it would be the biggest mistake in my life, terrified that only unimaginable pain would come from this, I told him my answer.