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 Posted: Mon Nov 11, 2013 8:35 am
They were sitting outside on the back porch, staring at the endless stretches of green grass until they reached the natural pond that formed the Hawthorns’ property boundary. Geese dotted the dark water like moving stars. It was getting towards evening.
“You’re a great kisser,” he said, “but you’re better at it when you’re sad about something. Why is that?”
“That’s a funny question.”
“I learned from the best.”
He knew better than to directly ask her anything, as much as it frustrated him. Sometimes all he could do was sit by the edge of the water and stir it, hoping something would come up besides his own reflection. Sometimes he wanted to throw something into the water and disrupt it completely.
“I think you’re looking more into something than you have to,” she said with a glance. “Sometimes a kiss is just a kiss.”
He shook his head. “Not with you. Everything means something with you.”
“No,” she argued with a smile, “everything means something with you. That’s the nice part about it. You look at life like it’s a story—like everything was meant to happen.”
“Don’t you?”
He must have been more intense than he meant, for she turned her gaze back on the pond; she'd retreated behind the wall again.
“You haven’t answered me,” he prompted.
“No, I have,” she said in a distant voice. “You just didn’t like what I had to say.”
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Posted: Mon Nov 11, 2013 8:55 am
“If you were an animal, what would you be?” she asked.
He looked up from his book with a confused look. “I’d rather stay human, thanks.”
“But that’s boring!” She took the opportunity to drape herself around his shoulders while he was sitting down, her head resting atop his. “Why be human if you could be something else for a little bit? Get a new perspective and all.”
“I like mine just fine, thanks.”
She giggled as if she had expected that answer. “Think about it: Don’t you want to be able to fly? Or swim deeper than any person’s ever gone? Or run faster than the fastest we can manage?”
He snorted and tilted his head to try and reach her neck. “I’m not good with heights, remember?” His lips made contact with her skin; a flutter of a noise escaped her. “What brought this question on anyway?”
“N-No reason~”
“There’s always a reason.” He gave her an expectant look, his mouth tugging into the beginnings of a smile at how easily flustered she was.
“Maybe I just wanted to know,” she mumbled, squeezing his shoulders. “You’re not very good at telling me things.”
Wasn’t he? “Hmm. I suppose I could try harder,” he said with a thoughtful look—and then he suddenly turned around and grabbed her, the sounds of squeaky protests and laughter ringing in his ears as his kisses wandered and his arms caged her in.
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Posted: Sat Nov 16, 2013 6:00 pm
He was aware she drifted sometimes. One foot settled in reality while another sat in an alternate universe, five toes spread out across five possibilities. He asked her once what that was like, and she gave him a secretive smile as she thought about it.
“I suppose it’s like watching fireworks from space.”
“And how would you know what that’s like?”
“I don’t. But I’ve imagined it a few times. You’ve been to a fireworks show, right? So you can imagine what it sounds like: how the crowd applauds and coos, how everything cracks and pops with merry conversation and small bursts of explosions, the smell of food cooking over sizzling fires. Light and sound occurring miles and miles away, splashes of color on another world you don’t exist in but can take yourself to in your mind. That sounds about right.”
He pursued her on different occasions about the topic because, as one far too grounded in reality, the idea of being so airheaded fascinated him. How could one live life like it was a fantasy when the very definition of ‘real’ defied it?
“Well, what’s your definition of real?” she asked once.
“Something that actually happened,” he replied with a dry tone. “Something rooted in fact that you can’t disprove.”
“And what’s a fantasy?”
A corner of his mouth pulled into a half-smile as his mind split towards different directions. “Make-believe. Something that can’t possibly happen.”
“Says who?”
“Says the dictionary. Or, you know, the whole world.”
She looked terribly amused by his logic. “Then let me ask you this: are your thoughts real?”
“Of course.”
“Can you prove to me you’re thinking?”
He clicked his tongue and gave her a wry smile. “Everyone thinks, even idiots sometimes. I don’t have to prove it, unless you want CT scans of brain activity.”
She snorted. “When you think, then, is it always in facts?” she asked anyway. “Or does your mind wander somewhere else? Do you ever find yourself in a place that doesn’t exist but that you wish it would?”
He was quiet for a moment, giving her an odd look. “Maybe.”
“Then you must’ve felt something about it, right? Does that make it real or fake?”
“You’re mixing the two up.”
“Or maybe they’re one and the same.”
“What I think, what I feel, and what actually happens are different,” he insisted, though he was beginning to be drawn in by the curious manner she always managed to tug him.
“And that—” She reached up and poked his nose lightly with a smile. “—is where your answer is. What’s it like to be me? The opposite of that.”
“The opposite of what?”
She laughed.
“You’re not making any sense,” he grumbled.
“Exactly.”
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Posted: Sun Dec 22, 2013 12:23 am
It wasn’t his fault.
The curves, the curls, the smile, those eyes, the way she ran her mouth over the littlest things
the way her mouth ran over something larger
the incredibly naïve way she looked at the world like it was meant for something instead of just being a plot of land for recycled pieces of s**t like him, blind and trite some days, endearing and hopeful on others
eyes wide, asking him to slow down
the smile, God damn it, the genuine rows of teeth not like tombstones, for once, but like sweets in a perfect line, with a taffy tongue and licorice lips to add, all for him to savor
eyes shut, asking him to get it over with
tidal waves of hair washing over his fingers, tangling them before he can really get a grip
squeaks from below, careful, careful
back into place his fingers go, guiding her, coaxing her, you said you liked it when people played with your hair, didn’t you
it’s impossible to be anything but rough when she came with perfect spots on her hips, begging to be groped and held like he knew she secretly liked, like all good little girls must
it’s the first time, be gentle
just a little bit of pain to add to the pleasure, a little denial of the perfect world
it’s the second time, go slower
that had to be what really got her, he had decided, the repeated reminder that the world would never be idyllic, the pain of which she converted into something better anyway like a ******** masochist
it’s the third time, please
she had to be one, or else she wouldn’t stick around him, wouldn’t keep flaunting herself by existing around him, asking for it with the curves, the curls, the smile, those eyes
neither of them were healthy; it was a perfect match, the right ingénue for the willing criminal to consistently tear down as she so liked
she knew it was her fault; he could see the guilty look in her eyes before she crumpled to the ground, he could physically see her being aware that she knew he drove him crazy, drove them both crazy
he hated that she had that much power over him even when on her knees
but he loved her noises just a little more in those moments; at least enough to blur the delicate line between both passions of love and hate.
And that was why it wasn’t ever his fault: because she made him this way on purpose. Because she asked for it.
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