Bones
One
It’s cold, somewhere in late autumn, somewhere in Great Britain. It’s raining and there’s smoke flowing out through the cracked window, trading off for the cold air that seeps through. His bones hurt; more and more they hurt, and he wants to go home.
An oversized tee-shirt slips off the shoulder of the blond in the room. His collar bones trying to tear through his skin, tighter on the inhale and softer on the breaths out. His roots are showing, dark brown contrasting the damaged bleach soaked hair. And the other male thinks about how nothing is natural anymore. Not hair, nails, photographs. Everything is retouched to assumed perfection, including the blond sitting knees to chest with a magic cigarette between his fingers. All 96lbs, and too-long hair full of sleep.
-We’re going to talk, the other male thinks. We are.
But not today. I’m too tired today.
An oversized tee-shirt slips off the shoulder of the blond in the room. His collar bones trying to tear through his skin, tighter on the inhale and softer on the breaths out. His roots are showing, dark brown contrasting the damaged bleach soaked hair. And the other male thinks about how nothing is natural anymore. Not hair, nails, photographs. Everything is retouched to assumed perfection, including the blond sitting knees to chest with a magic cigarette between his fingers. All 96lbs, and too-long hair full of sleep.
-We’re going to talk, the other male thinks. We are.
But not today. I’m too tired today.