Life Being What It Is
Un
It would happen in Montreal.
I've always wanted to go there in the wintertime, with the snow falling in furious flurries and those quirky Canadians speaking in frozen, sharp-tongued French. A glorious background beat for my plans.
But of course, I'd decided that years ago.
Yes, I'd fly over and I wouldn't bring anything except for books and music. Vinyl, because sound would matter in the end. And only the most worn of books, the ones I'd drunk in numerous times because words would matter in the end.
And I would bring her, because out of everything, her presence would matter in the end. I would need her face hovering above mine, her jittery hands pressing into my cold flesh and shaking desperately. Sarah's tears and pleading – that would matter most in the end, even if I wasn't witness.
There were plane tickets and a list crushing and crumpling under the weight of my hands and there was also all of her furniture and all of her pictures and all of the material items that made up her. There was no sound except for our breathing, hers was steady as she was sleeping and mine was heavy and thick because I was thinking and dreaming with eyes open. It was coating my hands -which were in a close proximity to my face with those papers crushed between my fingers- leaving my palms sweaty and clammy. I found a pen on her night stand and released the list from my grasp, pressing it against the wall right next to her sleeping form and taking care to flatten it out. My breath grew heavier and quicker with excitement as I wrote and I couldn't even care how the texture she'd insisted on putting into the walls was messing up my handwriting.
There, at the bottom, written in bright red was her name. The name of the person's who's lips I kiss.
I've always wanted to go there in the wintertime, with the snow falling in furious flurries and those quirky Canadians speaking in frozen, sharp-tongued French. A glorious background beat for my plans.
But of course, I'd decided that years ago.
Yes, I'd fly over and I wouldn't bring anything except for books and music. Vinyl, because sound would matter in the end. And only the most worn of books, the ones I'd drunk in numerous times because words would matter in the end.
And I would bring her, because out of everything, her presence would matter in the end. I would need her face hovering above mine, her jittery hands pressing into my cold flesh and shaking desperately. Sarah's tears and pleading – that would matter most in the end, even if I wasn't witness.
There were plane tickets and a list crushing and crumpling under the weight of my hands and there was also all of her furniture and all of her pictures and all of the material items that made up her. There was no sound except for our breathing, hers was steady as she was sleeping and mine was heavy and thick because I was thinking and dreaming with eyes open. It was coating my hands -which were in a close proximity to my face with those papers crushed between my fingers- leaving my palms sweaty and clammy. I found a pen on her night stand and released the list from my grasp, pressing it against the wall right next to her sleeping form and taking care to flatten it out. My breath grew heavier and quicker with excitement as I wrote and I couldn't even care how the texture she'd insisted on putting into the walls was messing up my handwriting.
There, at the bottom, written in bright red was her name. The name of the person's who's lips I kiss.