Bridges on Fire.
1.
He believes we’re even, following closely to the ‘an eye for an eye’ principle, similar to a hand for a hand, a kiss for a touch. He called it an open relationship. I saw it differently, more like an algebra test taken with hidden notes when there was a substitute teacher.
I didn’t do anything wrong, really, because I didn’t love him when it happened, and it wasn’t important. He saw it, though, so it matters in some deep, stupid way only he could make worthy of evening. Scores only matter in sports, I told him, but his ears have hidden power buttons that are clicked when I’m not watching. He would’ve argued some invalid point if he was listening anyway.
I sent him a note two days ago, with few words and no emoticons, almost like his phone messages he left on mornings I didn’t visit him. I didn’t want to break his heart, though I knew it was stone and was far too inhuman to be bothered with damage caused by teenage-crazed high blood pressure. Anyways, it’s not as though he wouldn’t have seen it coming, and I didn’t want to care anymore, so I didn’t.
I passed it to him in the hallway, during passing time from my lunch to his, thrusting the last page of my history notebook into his hand, wrapping my fingers around his, feeling a question rising to the tips of his fingers, trying to create a bridge to mine before I pulled away and turned my head to read a poster holding more interest than he ever could. We didn’t turn back to each other, like some overkill couples did, making faces to last until next passing time, and it was then I knew I was right, and I had won the game he’d made.
It was this feeling that got me through until today, and I’ll find another to bring me to tomorrow.
I didn’t do anything wrong, really, because I didn’t love him when it happened, and it wasn’t important. He saw it, though, so it matters in some deep, stupid way only he could make worthy of evening. Scores only matter in sports, I told him, but his ears have hidden power buttons that are clicked when I’m not watching. He would’ve argued some invalid point if he was listening anyway.
I sent him a note two days ago, with few words and no emoticons, almost like his phone messages he left on mornings I didn’t visit him. I didn’t want to break his heart, though I knew it was stone and was far too inhuman to be bothered with damage caused by teenage-crazed high blood pressure. Anyways, it’s not as though he wouldn’t have seen it coming, and I didn’t want to care anymore, so I didn’t.
I passed it to him in the hallway, during passing time from my lunch to his, thrusting the last page of my history notebook into his hand, wrapping my fingers around his, feeling a question rising to the tips of his fingers, trying to create a bridge to mine before I pulled away and turned my head to read a poster holding more interest than he ever could. We didn’t turn back to each other, like some overkill couples did, making faces to last until next passing time, and it was then I knew I was right, and I had won the game he’d made.
It was this feeling that got me through until today, and I’ll find another to bring me to tomorrow.