Sorry I have been so busy. Having moved out of the folks home, the responsibilities are killer + university... but anyway... I am going to try and make an effort to catch up and keep more frequent.
And with my apologies I bring a story... it is still the first draft though...
City Bus
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
Smile, and nod. Smile, and nod.
With a dry mouth and gum between your teeth, it isn’t so much the casket to your right and the audience to your left that has your mouth unwilling to open for words, it’s the fact that words do not form without a lively tongue. My tongue died.
My back is as straight as a surfboard with its nose in the sand. I’m sinking in the sand. I am standing knee deep in flowing time and ankle deep in brown, drying clay. I am standing with my legs beneath the ground, and my head in the clouds. I am standing at my girlfriend’s funeral. And all I can conjure in my mind is the cement that seems to be filling my mouth.
I wonder if my jaw will grow heavy, like a rifle does a marksman upon his target.
Only recently did I ask her father’s permission to propose – he hesitantly gave his blessing. I had it planned for next Monday. In the darkness, with popcorn in my hand, Gummy Bears in hers, teenagers making out behind us, murmuring old folks who keep looking back at the teenagers, and a ring.
Thinking about throats tightening around sandpaper.
In the darkness, I slip the ring on her finger. She would say nothing, holding in her emotion, and knowing that I was doing it purely for her, knowing that I do not believe in the false commitment an object holds. The movie would soar. Every joke would be twice as funny; every tear, twice as sad; every twist, twice as exciting; and every smile, twice as fulfilling. And then, after enjoying the best movie of our lives – our movie – she would scream out with joy in the parking lot, and jump up under my palms. ENACT cheesy starlight kiss.
Thinking about the exotic, scratching tongues of grave markers.
He is staring at me. She elbows him. He just stares, like a clock face does the opposing wall.
Tic, Toc.
The first time I met him he said I wouldn’t make it. I remember insulting him: do not be so loutish as to encapsulate your conformity and let societies conditioning pioneer your ability to appreciate the very existence of communication. But that was all in my head. I recall clicking in when he said, tune into reality and get a real job.
Tic.
The same day, that very evening, he pulled me aside with intense eyes of grief and threatened me indirectly, but soon began to beg me, “Don’t ruin my family.” I was basically a kid just out of university, though his face spoke to me for ages after. I never seriously considered the threat I posed upon his household. He loved his daughter. She was happy with me. He let that be enough, but he never gave up. He even went so far as to offer me money. I nearly took it, but then he tried to use the bargain against me.
Toc.
He can blame me forever – he deserves that much. I much rather be his well, and not his shelf. Drop your change. Make a wish. Sandwich and cigarettes for the pale, if you please.
“I am very sorry for your loss.”
Well, there is always next time, I reply.
Shit! that was stupid.
Her uncle looks at me with eyebrows like a fork face down. His face is tightly shaven. His skin is the colour of russet potatoes under the sun. A glowing recent visit. He opens his mouth to respond, but, of course, he doesn’t.
Stupid.
Thinking about devoting my future time to superior motives.
I considered joining her once, not that she invited me, but she could have – seems selfish really. We could have been Romeo and Juliet or even Mickey and Mallory. We could have been together. Then again, I have never been certain if I love her so much as to not want to live without her. I never really considered being so committed. Or maybe I am being selfish too.
There was a time in my life that I focused my energy on completion. A time I both seek to forget and detour to remember. This was long after drugs gave me a reason to live. When an orgasm seemed like a light switch next to my blood pumping poison through pain. Releasing the strap on my arm was like struggling to hold your breath under water, then just letting out an exhausted exhale, and enjoying the rush of water filling your lungs. Rehab would be realizing you couldn’t breathe.
Thinking about dainty white robes, and gravel dragging slippers.
Endlessly, orange, white-capped bottles dropped into the sink. A cap pops, and two-faced capsules slide towards the anus drain. A bottles breaks, and coloured pills ride the high-sided tank. Nothing matters but the moment. Nothing matters but oxycodone. A taste of beer doesn’t control the drive. Mix and match will be the task, as the oxycodone can’t be found.
Blood on wrists makes me uncomfortable.
She seemed so innocent. I thought that is what I liked about her. However, when I found out she smoked more pot than I did, I liked her more. Somehow the contrast between her personality and her façade intrigued me to a pedestal. Wanting to be with her was not enough. I had to be with her. I had to come back down to earth. Even in this contrast, we were so alike. She was kind hearted, low-key, and had the same kind of dry humour I have. She was just an all around nice person, beautiful in all ways. Yet, beyond that, she burned my cynical personality - tagging along with jokes and insults. At times, she was even more fruitful than I in such categories. She was cruel, and kind. She was latent with pessimism, but laden with optimism. She lived. She died.
Ropes around necks are too direct.
I would give her gifts periodically. It was never anything elaborate or expensive. There was just times I longed to give her something and hear her words. See her smile in that way. I gave her my childhood teddy bear once. She liked that one. I would sneak into bed early in the morning, with a small sentimental gift, or maybe a gift I made. She liked my paintings. I liked hers too.
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