November 3, 2012 § Leave a comment
“A tempting sample of who I could be, without the broken glass waiting underneath.” – I could be with anyone Kevin Devine.
Sarah’s here. Sarah’s new. The cold, fresh sun of the November morning falls on her face like gold. This is new. She smiled one of those smiles that fizzes with the fatigue of the night before and the joke at the end of the conversation that just passed. The silences are long and comfortable. Another delicate Saturday morning. Fried meat, tipping the balance of unstable appetites. The radio’s on but no one’s hearing it. We don’t need it. The news is outside our perfect bubble. News, social media, phones are all dead to us in here. Our clothes are our worst but we don’t care. It’s so easy.
There’s great joy in those fragile moments. The ones where both people are slow from the night before. With the right people everything’s funny. We lean on each other. We look out the windows at the fields that are the surrounding here. Sarah’s in my home. My home. She’s in my home, and she isn’t talking and I want her to stay.
Eye contact is brief but not awkward. Conversation flows with out being forced. I’m watching those little movements she does, trying to second guess if she wants to be here. Is she reaching for her shoes? Looking for her keys? What if she never comes back? And just like that, that sharp kicking bullet hits, dead center of the forehead, I’m off my chair and my dead weight body is falling to the floor with what was left of brain that I used to make sense of everything sprayed across my window. I see the floor coming on my brief trip. It doesn’t matter.Nothing matters. Because just like that, in the comfortable silence of a November morning, that bullet hits, I’m that 14 year old kid again. It all comes back. The highs and the lows, the insecurity, the moments of blind confidence. That stubborn roller coaster called love. All of that mundane style living. It’s over. I can feel the overwhelming difference. I can’t take the thoughts that rush around my veins and swim in my blood, I get up, easy, she thinks it’s routine. She has no idea of the under-surface of the scratch she made in my paint.