A Million Light Years Away
what's really there
As he entered back into the room, he fully expected her mood to be drastically improved. And yet, there she lay. All fragile legs and paper thin skin. She had collar bones made of the hollowed-out wings of birds. And her heart still fluttered like a hummingbird.
She has her left arm thrown dramatically over eyes. She is laying on his still warm side of the bed. There is her half-packed suitcase sitting at the foot of the bed.
“So, are you going to tell me what’s really wrong?” His hair is damp and he’s wearing just jeans and a t-shirt. She moves her arm and looks up, surprised. Like she didn’t even know he existed.
“It’s just,” She lifts her arms and presses the palms of her hands to her eyes. He can’t help but think that she looks exhausted. Ravaged. Spent. For some reason she always looks like she has just woken up. Stretched and yawning like a cat. “It’s just that I feel like I’m a million light years away. From here.”
He sits on the edge of the hotel bed and it sinks with his weight. The comforter is cheap, like in all hotels, even the high class ones. It’s a generic floral print and rough to the touch. Before he can even reach out to brush the stray hairs from her forehead, she is already up and standing.
She’s always been flighty. Anxious. She has avoidance down to a science. She is folding and re-folding everything in her suitcase. Hands like angels and bird wings.
“Then what’s it like a million light years away?” To be honest, he’d do just about anything to get into that foolish little head of hers, which he imagined was filled with apple trees and romance. Playing to her metaphors was just second nature by now.
“It’s lonely. And cold.” She’s looking out the window, at the blue of the sky and the dirty city streets. A shirt is frozen, half folded, in her hands. “It’s lonely and everything feels like cotton candy and tastes like tin. It’s open and wide and as dizzy as a glass of wine.” She pauses. He’s enraptured by the far away look in her eyes. She is so awfully dramatic sometimes. “But it’s mostly just cold and lonely.” She shrugs and quickly finishes folding the shirt, then starts to haphazardly dig through the suitcase. Looking for something that’s not there. That wasn’t even there to begin with.
He stands and places a hand at the back of her neck. And just as he leans in to kiss her forehead, she ducks away. And in an instant, she is off someplace else. Looking for something else that was never even there.
She has her left arm thrown dramatically over eyes. She is laying on his still warm side of the bed. There is her half-packed suitcase sitting at the foot of the bed.
“So, are you going to tell me what’s really wrong?” His hair is damp and he’s wearing just jeans and a t-shirt. She moves her arm and looks up, surprised. Like she didn’t even know he existed.
“It’s just,” She lifts her arms and presses the palms of her hands to her eyes. He can’t help but think that she looks exhausted. Ravaged. Spent. For some reason she always looks like she has just woken up. Stretched and yawning like a cat. “It’s just that I feel like I’m a million light years away. From here.”
He sits on the edge of the hotel bed and it sinks with his weight. The comforter is cheap, like in all hotels, even the high class ones. It’s a generic floral print and rough to the touch. Before he can even reach out to brush the stray hairs from her forehead, she is already up and standing.
She’s always been flighty. Anxious. She has avoidance down to a science. She is folding and re-folding everything in her suitcase. Hands like angels and bird wings.
“Then what’s it like a million light years away?” To be honest, he’d do just about anything to get into that foolish little head of hers, which he imagined was filled with apple trees and romance. Playing to her metaphors was just second nature by now.
“It’s lonely. And cold.” She’s looking out the window, at the blue of the sky and the dirty city streets. A shirt is frozen, half folded, in her hands. “It’s lonely and everything feels like cotton candy and tastes like tin. It’s open and wide and as dizzy as a glass of wine.” She pauses. He’s enraptured by the far away look in her eyes. She is so awfully dramatic sometimes. “But it’s mostly just cold and lonely.” She shrugs and quickly finishes folding the shirt, then starts to haphazardly dig through the suitcase. Looking for something that’s not there. That wasn’t even there to begin with.
He stands and places a hand at the back of her neck. And just as he leans in to kiss her forehead, she ducks away. And in an instant, she is off someplace else. Looking for something else that was never even there.