A Retelling of Events That Never Happened.
A Conversation at the Foot of My Bed.
“He wants to meet you. Just be nice, okay?” Brendon sounds worried, stressed.
You’re in bed, under the blankets and he’s sitting at the foot. You’re playing with your stuffed rabbit and he’s looking at you. “Why should I meet him?” You poke his leg with your foot.
“Because I asked you nicely.” He’s exasperated and he gets up, kisses your cheek and leaves to go fetch his ex-boyfriend (reunited boyfriend?) from the airport.
You stay in bed. You pretend she’s a real bunny, play with her ears. Her eyes are rather similar to his eyes, unfortunately, but you can’t blame her for that. An hour and a half later, Brendon brings him in. He sits at the foot of your bed and you lift your eyes up to look at him.
He holds out his hand. “I’m Ryan.”
“I know.” You take his hand, slowly, shake it. “I’m Dru.”
“Brendon’s girlfriend.” He smiles.
“Well, you’re his boyfriend.”
“How are you?”
“Why’d you do it?” You didn’t expect to ask that question, but you don’t feel stupid and you don’t regret it. He’s the one who should be sorry, not you.
He doesn’t ask for clarification. He doesn’t even looked that shocked and you get the feeling that Brendon’s big mouth has been running away talking about shit it shouldn’t again. “You ever feel like you’re going to suffocate when you’re in a room by yourself?”
You don’t answer.
“I knew I needed something to change. Or I was going to drown.”
”You’re full of shit.”
*
You’re sitting up in bed, having a conversation with the air resting invisibly at the foot. You place his face there. You finish your conversation. Nothing is resolved. You’re dressed in a long tee shirt with a stuffed bunny in your lap. The lights are out and the only glow is that from the light of your cell phone charging. You know enough to know you are very much alone in your bedroom.
He’s . . . somewhere. He’s not aware of your conversation or your existence. He is continuing on with exactly what he was doing before.
You are trying to fall asleep with tears on your face.
You’re in bed, under the blankets and he’s sitting at the foot. You’re playing with your stuffed rabbit and he’s looking at you. “Why should I meet him?” You poke his leg with your foot.
“Because I asked you nicely.” He’s exasperated and he gets up, kisses your cheek and leaves to go fetch his ex-boyfriend (reunited boyfriend?) from the airport.
You stay in bed. You pretend she’s a real bunny, play with her ears. Her eyes are rather similar to his eyes, unfortunately, but you can’t blame her for that. An hour and a half later, Brendon brings him in. He sits at the foot of your bed and you lift your eyes up to look at him.
He holds out his hand. “I’m Ryan.”
“I know.” You take his hand, slowly, shake it. “I’m Dru.”
“Brendon’s girlfriend.” He smiles.
“Well, you’re his boyfriend.”
“How are you?”
“Why’d you do it?” You didn’t expect to ask that question, but you don’t feel stupid and you don’t regret it. He’s the one who should be sorry, not you.
He doesn’t ask for clarification. He doesn’t even looked that shocked and you get the feeling that Brendon’s big mouth has been running away talking about shit it shouldn’t again. “You ever feel like you’re going to suffocate when you’re in a room by yourself?”
You don’t answer.
“I knew I needed something to change. Or I was going to drown.”
”You’re full of shit.”
*
You’re sitting up in bed, having a conversation with the air resting invisibly at the foot. You place his face there. You finish your conversation. Nothing is resolved. You’re dressed in a long tee shirt with a stuffed bunny in your lap. The lights are out and the only glow is that from the light of your cell phone charging. You know enough to know you are very much alone in your bedroom.
He’s . . . somewhere. He’s not aware of your conversation or your existence. He is continuing on with exactly what he was doing before.
You are trying to fall asleep with tears on your face.