frosty_gurl02
02-11-2004, 09:35 PM
He sits across from me at the kitchen table, spoon in mouth and once removed his lips glisten with the sheen of warm chicken broth. It’s an instant cup of ambiance . Is it normal to feel this warm inside?
Eyelids flutter and he says, “You look as if you are about to faint.”
“It’s this new medication,” I explain.
He nods.
Black hair curls like ink spilling and he wipes it clean with the tips of his toes, brushing against my pant leg.
He’s slurping.
I’m blushing,
Blushing so deeply my cheeks coil and turn red. I’m a fixture in this tiny room and I am about to break. Explode. Vibrate. Something.
“I’m afraid I can’t do this anymore.” I say. He looks stunned, hurt as if I had just leaned over, kissed him and burnt his tongue with my saliva.
“Can’t do what?”
“Exist.”
“You know,” he says. “You are too much. I never know what to say to you.”
I remain resilient, this does not surprise me.
“That’s exactly the problem.”
Is that angry tone resonating from this slowly swelling throat?
“No one ever knows what to say. It’s hands, it’s lips, it’s bodies pressed up against each other. It’s never words.”
He ignores me, studies his warped reflection in the back of his spoon, raised like a silver teardrop against his tanned skin. I notice how his finger nails are round and perfect like dinner plates.
I begin to laugh. He’s got his dish, he’s got his spoon.
“What are you laughing at?” He sounds defiant.
“Run away,” I say. "Just... run away.”
Eyelids flutter and he says, “You look as if you are about to faint.”
“It’s this new medication,” I explain.
He nods.
Black hair curls like ink spilling and he wipes it clean with the tips of his toes, brushing against my pant leg.
He’s slurping.
I’m blushing,
Blushing so deeply my cheeks coil and turn red. I’m a fixture in this tiny room and I am about to break. Explode. Vibrate. Something.
“I’m afraid I can’t do this anymore.” I say. He looks stunned, hurt as if I had just leaned over, kissed him and burnt his tongue with my saliva.
“Can’t do what?”
“Exist.”
“You know,” he says. “You are too much. I never know what to say to you.”
I remain resilient, this does not surprise me.
“That’s exactly the problem.”
Is that angry tone resonating from this slowly swelling throat?
“No one ever knows what to say. It’s hands, it’s lips, it’s bodies pressed up against each other. It’s never words.”
He ignores me, studies his warped reflection in the back of his spoon, raised like a silver teardrop against his tanned skin. I notice how his finger nails are round and perfect like dinner plates.
I begin to laugh. He’s got his dish, he’s got his spoon.
“What are you laughing at?” He sounds defiant.
“Run away,” I say. "Just... run away.”