I was never there: a love story
A small smile. A half-grin. I have a secret. Sitting on the bus, I look out the grimy window. The shame gives me such pleasure; I cross and re-cross my legs. It's dirty and cruel and small and cheap. But, it is something.
I hate him and he hates me. We punish each other. We never make eye contact, the only conversation is fingers pulling, zippers grating, buttons straining. He makes me wear braids, so none of my hair is shed on his white sheets. No perfume allowed. I was never there.
I call out her name when we do it. He cries. I laugh. He scrapes his beard over me, leaving a mark. Its over, I have to take the rubber out to the trash when I leave. I was never there.
I have a glass of water and he gives me change for the bus. I smirk at him and make a joke about my going rate. We don't laugh. He waves and tries to say something nice. He changes his mind and shuts the door. On the bus, the smell of him saves me from the stench of bus people.
She calls me later that night to tell me that he has asked her to marry him. I am so happy for them. I will be invited to the wedding, of course. I run my fingers over the beard burn on my chest. I laugh out loud. She thinks I am excited for them. Her and I - such dear friends. Would I like to come over for a celebratory drink? You remember where our apartment is?
Sitting on the bus, my hair is brushed out; perfume raked through from root to tip. We will look at wedding magazines, and I will act surprised when she asks me to be her matron of honour. We will make jokes about the word matron. We will get drunk, very drunk.
To him, I will make lewd comments that will make her laugh until she cries. He will not laugh. They will fight. She will want me to stay over, I'll agree. We will sleep in their bed, while he is sent to the couch.
We will giggle and drink more and remember when we were young. He will lay contorted, straining to hear. Sleepless, sweating and praying.
Long black hair will cling to the pillow. She will see it and remark how different she and I are; one so fair the other so dark. She will offer to braid my hair, like when we were children. I will pretend to be asleep. No braids tonight. She tells me she is happy just knowing I am here. The half smile returns. I am here.
A small smile. A half-grin. I have a secret. Sitting on the bus, I look out the grimy window. The shame gives me such pleasure; I cross and re-cross my legs. It's dirty and cruel and small and cheap. But, it is something.
I hate him and he hates me. We punish each other. We never make eye contact, the only conversation is fingers pulling, zippers grating, buttons straining. He makes me wear braids, so none of my hair is shed on his white sheets. No perfume allowed. I was never there.
I call out her name when we do it. He cries. I laugh. He scrapes his beard over me, leaving a mark. Its over, I have to take the rubber out to the trash when I leave. I was never there.
I have a glass of water and he gives me change for the bus. I smirk at him and make a joke about my going rate. We don't laugh. He waves and tries to say something nice. He changes his mind and shuts the door. On the bus, the smell of him saves me from the stench of bus people.
She calls me later that night to tell me that he has asked her to marry him. I am so happy for them. I will be invited to the wedding, of course. I run my fingers over the beard burn on my chest. I laugh out loud. She thinks I am excited for them. Her and I - such dear friends. Would I like to come over for a celebratory drink? You remember where our apartment is?
Sitting on the bus, my hair is brushed out; perfume raked through from root to tip. We will look at wedding magazines, and I will act surprised when she asks me to be her matron of honour. We will make jokes about the word matron. We will get drunk, very drunk.
To him, I will make lewd comments that will make her laugh until she cries. He will not laugh. They will fight. She will want me to stay over, I'll agree. We will sleep in their bed, while he is sent to the couch.
We will giggle and drink more and remember when we were young. He will lay contorted, straining to hear. Sleepless, sweating and praying.
Long black hair will cling to the pillow. She will see it and remark how different she and I are; one so fair the other so dark. She will offer to braid my hair, like when we were children. I will pretend to be asleep. No braids tonight. She tells me she is happy just knowing I am here. The half smile returns. I am here.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
exploded:
wow......::left pondering::....just...wow
tigersaint:
very good