"Oh I see how it goes now," I say, smiling a little.
"Yes," he says, pulling something white and rustling out of his jacket pocket. A bag of white powder.
He looks up at me, his eyes blazing, his expression playful but also afraid, his eyebrowse still. A credit card appears out of nowhere. It's dirty, peeling and faded. I know it's not his but I tell myself he borrowed it from a friend.
"Do you...?" he asks as he opens it and tips it gently on the table. Then he swears.
"I do."
I don't. I watch as he uses the card to make lines. He's quick. AmStart, the card says despondently. Save me, it says also, take me away from here and clean me up. I can be better. I'll sing to you and bring you groceries and patch the hole in the wall. Please.
His fingers are long and thin and pale, like maybe he's Dracula, and they look strong, as if they can, actually, carry bags of groceries at a time. My own fingers grip the chair seat tighter.
"Here," he commands, "Use this."
And as I float away, aware of his hands on my skin and the marks on the ceiling and his mouth, his eyes, his warmth, I think of the silver pennies in the street.
~
"You don't, do you?" he asks.
"No."
His fingers play with my hair.
"Ever?"
"Never."
He sighs.
~
"So there's this shop on Prembral Street that sells buns as big as, well, as that rubbish bin," I gesture down the road.
He laughs, "Let's go!"
We buy eleven, because I want ten but he wants to feed the birds, and we eat them all. Sitting on the hard, cold bench. I can feel his leg against mine. Pressing. The birds bob their heads as they pick at the bread.
It's so cold. The clouds seem endless and I hate it, looking up at all that grey, shivering, bones on bones like skeletons waltzing or fighting over the last piece of soft, sweet flesh.
"I'm trying to... you know... do it," he says quietly. His leg is pressed against mine and it's all I can think about. That and the cold. Cold like ice down your back. Cold like Bones.
"Good," I say, staring at the sky.
"No," he turns to me, and I think he sounds agitated. "I'm going to. I mean it."
Is this what agitated sounds like? I wonder. Is this really cold?
"Ok."
He sighs again. He moves. The warmth of his leg vanishes and I turn.
"What-?"
"You're not listening, are you?"
"I am, yo-"
"You're not!"
Yes, this is agitated. I look up into his face, squinting a little, and I see that he's frowning at me. His face is closed off, and his legs... how far they are now.
"Oh, I was," I say stupidly and slowly, "you said you- you were thinking of trying..."
Is this desperation? It feels strange to think about feelings and emotions. Was I always like this? So slow and foggy, like walking in a dream surrounded by clouds and clouds of fog. Walking but not aware of anything, and in the morning, after you've woken up and looked at the sunshine, when you're sitting at the table eating toast with honey, sweeping your toes back and forth over the cool tiles wondering when the mail will arrive, you don't remember that feeling of walking forever in the fog.
"Let's go," he says. His face is soft. I shiver and stand up.
"You said you were going to," I mutter, "You never said what."
"Spaced out is a side effect," he tells me cheerfully. We walk past the birds and I long to reach out and take his hand. But I don't.
~
"This is what it looks like," he says and I turn away, tired, sore and cold.
"Hey!"
I walk into the kitchen but he follows. He grabs my arm.
"You don't realise how it goes," he hisses. His face is close. His eyes burning, magnetic, absolute. I try as hard as I can to focus on the fridge and I say softly, "I have a pretty good idea."
"Ha!" he pulls my arm.
"Stop that!"
"What would you know? You're still on the fucking side effects!"
I glare at him even though somewhere far away (maybe my chest?) something is breaking. "You don't think I know about people?"
"WHAT'S THIS THEN?" And he shoves his other arm into my face so I see white skin and red lines.
"Stop it!"
"WHAT THE FUCK IS?"
His face is red and sharp, his face is hard and dark, my heart is breaking, I think, and his eyes are cold. So cold.
"I DON'T KNOW! GET AWAY FROM ME!" I yank as hard as I can; I'm not strong enough. His fingers wrapped around my wrist. He looks like he's about to laugh. He leans in close. I want to rip my arm away and run, I want to, but his hair is touching mine and his skin is so close, I feel the heat, it's only a tiny gap. If I move I could...
"You're an idiot," he says.
It's breaking. Somewhere far away, so far that I hardly notice, somewhere there, something is falling apart.
"People-"
"YOU DON'T KNOW!" He grips tighter. There's digging in my skin, there's pain and spit, there's wide eyes, pulling, tears.
"People!" I throw the words out like I'm throwing them into his face and I'm gasping at the pain, but it's not so bad. "People like you."
His eyes are so wide. I would crawl into them and drown, if he'd hold still. If he'd stop pulling my arm. "People who hurt you, people you hurt, what does it matter? If I could make it better..."
It's splitting apart. Something is falling and splitting and- oh. The tears are mine.
Then there's pain.
There's pain in his eyes and his mouth, in my head, in my eyes, in my arm. And, somewhere else. Some place in the distance something is hurting too.
The pressure on my arm makes me wince. "Please stop..."
The pain grows like someone is coming towards us with a big, illuminating sign. Take this, the person says, puffing and straining but carrying it still, show us what it's like to love.
"No!" I yell.
Show us love.
"SHUT UP!"
I pull free. He's standing there staring at me and his face is crumpling, and piecing itself back together, and then crumpling, and he's trying so hard I can't stand it.
I run into the bedroom and slam the door. Bits of plaster sprinkle down into my eyes like desperation. I can't breathe. I pull the table with the powder on it, I pull the chair, the lamp, the basket of dirty towels, I pile them all against the door and curl up on the bed. Tighter. Colder. Emptier.
It's my heart, yes, there it is. The pieces broken and sharp and small, so small and so abstract that putting them back together would be impossible. Just like that egg who fell and broke and the men ate him for breakfast...
Or was it?
Did they have toast fingers and melting butter and shiny forks with bumpy patterns on them? I can't remember.
Tell us you're in love.
~
"I think you jammed the door," he says softly, lying close. I'm not cold anymore.
"You broke the door?" I mumble, opening one eye slowly.
"Came through the window."
I grab onto his shirt because it's the closest thing to my hand, and squeeze.
"I think you can."
"No," he puts his face into my neck, "I don't think I can."
His voice is a whisper; alive yet fading, and shaky. Like he's about to cry.
~
"You ruined the pattern so it's your turn to do the dishes," I grin wickedly.
"Nah, the five goes here," he says, concentrating, moving the little tiles around. His head is bent.
I know he's pretending because he knows he's lost. And because we don't have any dishes. The plastic plates are jumbled up next to the window, one plastic spoon on the pillow, a red foam cup with split edges in the bathroom.
His knee is jiggling.
"Your turn."
I slide the tile around in my fingers as he watches. "If I put this with the nine it'll throw out the whole game."
"Mmm. Then don't play it."
"I have to play something, otherwise I'll lose."
He scratches his nose and leans down on one elbow so his body stretches out, his head near the bed, a small smile, gleaming eyes. "This is true."
I squint at him, "You made it true."
"Yes."
I tug his jacket tighter around my shoulders, put my hand in the pocket and pull out a small plastic bag. A plastic bag with white stuff in it. His face changes. Clenches. Hardens.
"You know that foggy feeling where you feel lost and you're walking and walking and going nowhere because you can't see anything?" I say.
He shrugs, "Possibly."
"I was hoping, maybe, to experience that again. Anyway..."
He blinks. Then he grins and I feel tingly. He scrambles up, slides a mirror from somewhere and says, "What you want to do, is..."
He pours, cuts, neatens. He holds it out. Waits. Watches. Kisses me, hard, like he's trying to tell me something. Leans back but his fingers are tangled in my hair, pulling me, and his eyes are so bright, so big.
"I said I'm going to," he breathes. I nod. "No," he pulls me closer, "I mean it. I meant it."
His eyes as big as the universe. His knees under mine. His warm breath, his skin, his words.
"It's ok. I believe you," I lean into his forehead, "I want to as well."
But there's something cold in my chest, now. Because we're lying.
~
(c)
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