Mother complained, “When are you coming home?” And Father complained too. “The only part of Canada without decent skiing. Your mother is driving me nuts.”
“My parents are dead,” she told him, serenely, as though thanking God.
He constantly wanted to brush her hair out of her face, but she would fuss, even swear at him when he tried. “Please, don’t.” “Will you fucking stop?” But he would forget so easily, maybe on purpose, he was always just wishing to see her face, to see her burning eyes staring back into his. She found it rude to stare. She told him so. She liked to sneak glances at people who were unaware of her. Or at least unaware of her eyes on them, her hanging limp hair serving a purpose.
He was in love with her. He told her all the time. But she saw it in his eyes, his movements, heard it in his voice and his everyday words, felt his actions, those of concern and care. She could see and recognize and accept his feelings. She could not be sure she felt the same. Of course, she knew she loved him, but she had learned long ago that butterflies and blushes and sex do not equate to in love. She wondered really if there were such a thing as in love anyway, or if it was just all about hormones and stupidity. He acted stupid lots.
She approached everything in life differently these days, down to even the most commonplace of acts; she started brushing her teeth in the kitchen. Unless he was over. She did not want to make anymore mistakes. She did not know if she would ever want the things he did. He knew it too, but he was determined to prove himself worthy of her. She wondered if she would ever know happiness again. He endured her moods and her hysterics and her distain, so he could show it to her. It would take some figuring out, he assured her, but he was certain he could do it. “Just you wait.”
“Go away,” she would tell him, when he hovered over her, like a mother-hen.
“I just want to be near you. Make sure you’re okay,” he would reply.
And this would irritate her further. “Go away,” she would repeat.
And he would.
And when he was leaving, he would say, “This wasn’t enough. I’ll be back soon.”
She would never know if she should love him more or less for this.
She did not have pets of her own, but she loved cats, and fed the neighbourhood strays, and a few of the ones with homes too. If she had ever doubted animals spoke to each other, she knew for sure now they did. She wondered what they had named her place. Suckers Inn. They would come and meow at her window announcing their arrival and some would run away when she opened it to place the bowl of food outside, leaving it open in case they wanted to come in. Sometimes they did.
He brought the cat food over now; she refused to leave her home. He brought her food too, that she would refuse to eat most days. He cooked anyway. He brought her the Bic pens and she chewed on their lids, but she seldom used them otherwise, unless to do numbers. He brought her the drinking straws that she would chew between cigarettes, and the cigarettes, he brought them too, even though the smell and taste upset and disgusted him. He sat in her gloomy, smoky living room and watched old black and white movies, or did nothing, nothing at all, waiting for her to look up at him and glare or smile. He would bet against himself. If she smiles, I will do my dishes when I gets home, if she’s all bitchy, I will do hers….
Somedays, she would not say a single word to him. Everyday, she would mumble and laugh to herself, as he watched her pencil fly across the paper, or her fingertips glide over the keyboard, and he would wonder, What are you writing? He would leave little notes all over her apartment. She placed them carefully in photo albums (he did not know) or some she placed on the bathroom mirror, and she would write back to him in lipstick…
Fuck you.
Eat shit.
Go home!!!!!!!!!!
Sometimes with a heart, and sometimes not.
One night, Jimmy told him, “You’re nothing but a whipping boy.” And maybe Jimmy was right. But since he did not have other whipping boys to compare himself to, he did not take Jimmy’s words too seriously. Besides, he slurred them when he said them. “You should go talk to that blonde.” Jimmy pointed to a tart all permed and in hot pink and heels.
“I think the Jimster should take this one,” he offered back.
They tipped their beers at each other, as Jimmy and his boots swaggered off.
He would inevitably wind up at her window after a night out with Jimmy, and she would let him in. His kisses forceful, wet and all teeth; she would push him away and then once he slowed down she would give into him, barely uttering a sound, as he moved within her. And unavoidably, he would cry real tears. “Please…Please…” And she would really cry too. “I love you. I do. I love you. For always.” He would hold her desperate, and pretend to believe she meant more than what she was saying.
“My parents are dead,” she told him, serenely, as though thanking God.
He constantly wanted to brush her hair out of her face, but she would fuss, even swear at him when he tried. “Please, don’t.” “Will you fucking stop?” But he would forget so easily, maybe on purpose, he was always just wishing to see her face, to see her burning eyes staring back into his. She found it rude to stare. She told him so. She liked to sneak glances at people who were unaware of her. Or at least unaware of her eyes on them, her hanging limp hair serving a purpose.
He was in love with her. He told her all the time. But she saw it in his eyes, his movements, heard it in his voice and his everyday words, felt his actions, those of concern and care. She could see and recognize and accept his feelings. She could not be sure she felt the same. Of course, she knew she loved him, but she had learned long ago that butterflies and blushes and sex do not equate to in love. She wondered really if there were such a thing as in love anyway, or if it was just all about hormones and stupidity. He acted stupid lots.
She approached everything in life differently these days, down to even the most commonplace of acts; she started brushing her teeth in the kitchen. Unless he was over. She did not want to make anymore mistakes. She did not know if she would ever want the things he did. He knew it too, but he was determined to prove himself worthy of her. She wondered if she would ever know happiness again. He endured her moods and her hysterics and her distain, so he could show it to her. It would take some figuring out, he assured her, but he was certain he could do it. “Just you wait.”
“Go away,” she would tell him, when he hovered over her, like a mother-hen.
“I just want to be near you. Make sure you’re okay,” he would reply.
And this would irritate her further. “Go away,” she would repeat.
And he would.
And when he was leaving, he would say, “This wasn’t enough. I’ll be back soon.”
She would never know if she should love him more or less for this.
She did not have pets of her own, but she loved cats, and fed the neighbourhood strays, and a few of the ones with homes too. If she had ever doubted animals spoke to each other, she knew for sure now they did. She wondered what they had named her place. Suckers Inn. They would come and meow at her window announcing their arrival and some would run away when she opened it to place the bowl of food outside, leaving it open in case they wanted to come in. Sometimes they did.
He brought the cat food over now; she refused to leave her home. He brought her food too, that she would refuse to eat most days. He cooked anyway. He brought her the Bic pens and she chewed on their lids, but she seldom used them otherwise, unless to do numbers. He brought her the drinking straws that she would chew between cigarettes, and the cigarettes, he brought them too, even though the smell and taste upset and disgusted him. He sat in her gloomy, smoky living room and watched old black and white movies, or did nothing, nothing at all, waiting for her to look up at him and glare or smile. He would bet against himself. If she smiles, I will do my dishes when I gets home, if she’s all bitchy, I will do hers….
Somedays, she would not say a single word to him. Everyday, she would mumble and laugh to herself, as he watched her pencil fly across the paper, or her fingertips glide over the keyboard, and he would wonder, What are you writing? He would leave little notes all over her apartment. She placed them carefully in photo albums (he did not know) or some she placed on the bathroom mirror, and she would write back to him in lipstick…
Fuck you.
Eat shit.
Go home!!!!!!!!!!
Sometimes with a heart, and sometimes not.
One night, Jimmy told him, “You’re nothing but a whipping boy.” And maybe Jimmy was right. But since he did not have other whipping boys to compare himself to, he did not take Jimmy’s words too seriously. Besides, he slurred them when he said them. “You should go talk to that blonde.” Jimmy pointed to a tart all permed and in hot pink and heels.
“I think the Jimster should take this one,” he offered back.
They tipped their beers at each other, as Jimmy and his boots swaggered off.
He would inevitably wind up at her window after a night out with Jimmy, and she would let him in. His kisses forceful, wet and all teeth; she would push him away and then once he slowed down she would give into him, barely uttering a sound, as he moved within her. And unavoidably, he would cry real tears. “Please…Please…” And she would really cry too. “I love you. I do. I love you. For always.” He would hold her desperate, and pretend to believe she meant more than what she was saying.
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I am well, and hoping you are too.