Valentine
February Fourteenth
Ryan and I, we are going to die.
Not in the same way the rest of them are. We could have decades left on our lives, we could have a century. Most of them have the days marked off on their calendars. Projected Day of Death: March 7. June 13. April 11. January 29. There are doctor's records that say this. Tuberculosis. Cancer. AIDS. These people have little yellow sheets that say, you have two years to live. Nightmares. You could be dead in a month.
They have flowers on their bedsides and lawyers signing wills. Trustees and beneficiaries. These people have someone praying for them every night. To everyone but themselves, they are already dead.
We are more selfish than this.
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The date is February 14th and it feels all wrong. Standing between Ryan and I are seventeen strangers, seventeen soulmates. Eighteen, if you caount the baby of the girl I'm next to. She is eleven years old. She is pregnant with her father's child.
The point is supposed to be that none of us die alone, but we're not going to die together. They have nobody.
We have seven minutes. Everyone is counting. At three o'clock we will jump. In broad daylight we will jump. In the middle of the day our bodies will cover taxis and schoolchildren. I avoid his gaze, his glare.
We do not want to die like this. Not "we" collectively. Ryan, Ryan and I.
What's funny is that I'd dreamt this moment so hard, I can't even believe it hasn't already happened.
"Death," he said, "is our marriage." We need to die together.
When we step out of line, me and then him, her eyes say "coward". We walk down the stairs hand-in-hand because, "coward", that isn't what this is about. This isn't about suicide.
Wait.
"Ryan, why do we want to do this?"
He is silent. Does he know?
And Ryan, what he does is grab my wrists and slam me against the wall. What he does is attack my lips with his, mash them together so hard. Move them and bite them until they bleed.
Then we laugh, because we are idiots.
"We could've always just done that, couldn't we have." He says it with a smile. He says it like a child, not like a lyricist.
"We were being so silly. Thanks, B, you saved me."
Our fingers link. We skip down the streets. Bodies fall and we don't scream. I step over this dead girl and we go home.
"Hey B, Ryan. What's up?" Spencer barely even looks up from his magazie.
We kiss again.
Not in the same way the rest of them are. We could have decades left on our lives, we could have a century. Most of them have the days marked off on their calendars. Projected Day of Death: March 7. June 13. April 11. January 29. There are doctor's records that say this. Tuberculosis. Cancer. AIDS. These people have little yellow sheets that say, you have two years to live. Nightmares. You could be dead in a month.
They have flowers on their bedsides and lawyers signing wills. Trustees and beneficiaries. These people have someone praying for them every night. To everyone but themselves, they are already dead.
We are more selfish than this.
+
The date is February 14th and it feels all wrong. Standing between Ryan and I are seventeen strangers, seventeen soulmates. Eighteen, if you caount the baby of the girl I'm next to. She is eleven years old. She is pregnant with her father's child.
The point is supposed to be that none of us die alone, but we're not going to die together. They have nobody.
We have seven minutes. Everyone is counting. At three o'clock we will jump. In broad daylight we will jump. In the middle of the day our bodies will cover taxis and schoolchildren. I avoid his gaze, his glare.
We do not want to die like this. Not "we" collectively. Ryan, Ryan and I.
What's funny is that I'd dreamt this moment so hard, I can't even believe it hasn't already happened.
"Death," he said, "is our marriage." We need to die together.
When we step out of line, me and then him, her eyes say "coward". We walk down the stairs hand-in-hand because, "coward", that isn't what this is about. This isn't about suicide.
Wait.
"Ryan, why do we want to do this?"
He is silent. Does he know?
And Ryan, what he does is grab my wrists and slam me against the wall. What he does is attack my lips with his, mash them together so hard. Move them and bite them until they bleed.
Then we laugh, because we are idiots.
"We could've always just done that, couldn't we have." He says it with a smile. He says it like a child, not like a lyricist.
"We were being so silly. Thanks, B, you saved me."
Our fingers link. We skip down the streets. Bodies fall and we don't scream. I step over this dead girl and we go home.
"Hey B, Ryan. What's up?" Spencer barely even looks up from his magazie.
We kiss again.