Morphine
Her- Track Nine
He spins me slowly to a guitar solo, saying something about when we were thirteen. I can’t listen… I’m distracted.
“Why are you here?”
“You said I could come.”
“Yes,” I admit, “but why now? You’ve waited three years to attempt at reconciliation. Why now?”
“I hate him.” He says, simply, still dancing.
“Who?”
“Samuel Atwood.”
“That’s too bad. Now, please, remove yourself from my parent’s estate.”
“What?”
“Get. Off. My. Property.”
“I think you’re overreacting.”
“Am I? I finally let myself think ‘well, maybe…’ and all you can say is that you hate my fiancé. So please, just go.”
“Fiancé? Really? What rings or marks prove that?”
“He lives with me. But what does that matter to you and why are you still here?” I yell, furious now as he smiles.
“I don’t have cancer.”
And he must’ve known I’m a sucker for cliches. He must’ve known that the trite and banal excite me. I’m already in front of the camera… I guess I should play my part.
I can walk away. I can get in his non-jeans. I can punch his blue eyes black. How does one choose her part when every role is desirable?
“She picks the most scandalous plan, mentioned or unmentioned.” I say, grinning with what I hope is the Devil’s Blessing.
“What?”
“’Shut up!’ she replies, pulling him by his belt loops into the house, shoving him into a closet.” I continues narrating, completing each action. He looks surprised in the beyond dim light. “She covers his eyes with the sash of the dress she wears for his enemy. He asks ‘why.’”
“Why?”
“And she places a finger over his lips, telling him to shut up once more.”
“Then, they kiss?”
“Then they kiss.” Our lips meet for less time than it takes to say the name of the action and he begins muttering about years and hours and bitter hatred for other boys. I am annoyed, shoving my mouth back onto his in the absence of duct tape.
“Morphine,” he says. “That’s your name and I am addicted.”
Immediately, I know I made the wrong decision. I know I knew better than this.
My ring leaves an imprint in his cheek and I untie my sash from his drooping head.
“I got what I wanted. Hope you get what you deserve.”
“Why are you here?”
“You said I could come.”
“Yes,” I admit, “but why now? You’ve waited three years to attempt at reconciliation. Why now?”
“I hate him.” He says, simply, still dancing.
“Who?”
“Samuel Atwood.”
“That’s too bad. Now, please, remove yourself from my parent’s estate.”
“What?”
“Get. Off. My. Property.”
“I think you’re overreacting.”
“Am I? I finally let myself think ‘well, maybe…’ and all you can say is that you hate my fiancé. So please, just go.”
“Fiancé? Really? What rings or marks prove that?”
“He lives with me. But what does that matter to you and why are you still here?” I yell, furious now as he smiles.
“I don’t have cancer.”
And he must’ve known I’m a sucker for cliches. He must’ve known that the trite and banal excite me. I’m already in front of the camera… I guess I should play my part.
I can walk away. I can get in his non-jeans. I can punch his blue eyes black. How does one choose her part when every role is desirable?
“She picks the most scandalous plan, mentioned or unmentioned.” I say, grinning with what I hope is the Devil’s Blessing.
“What?”
“’Shut up!’ she replies, pulling him by his belt loops into the house, shoving him into a closet.” I continues narrating, completing each action. He looks surprised in the beyond dim light. “She covers his eyes with the sash of the dress she wears for his enemy. He asks ‘why.’”
“Why?”
“And she places a finger over his lips, telling him to shut up once more.”
“Then, they kiss?”
“Then they kiss.” Our lips meet for less time than it takes to say the name of the action and he begins muttering about years and hours and bitter hatred for other boys. I am annoyed, shoving my mouth back onto his in the absence of duct tape.
“Morphine,” he says. “That’s your name and I am addicted.”
Immediately, I know I made the wrong decision. I know I knew better than this.
My ring leaves an imprint in his cheek and I untie my sash from his drooping head.
“I got what I wanted. Hope you get what you deserve.”
♠ ♠ ♠
Once again, I apologize for the paragraph spacing.