Walls
Seven.
It's funny the way your body can fall into a routine of tears. The clock strikes a certain time and your eyes flood over. Eventually, it's just another thing. Like brushing your teeth, or combing your hair, or putting socks on. Except you get water stains on your shirt when you cry. But I guess that can also happen when you brush your teeth.
Just like any other routine, after a while, you just go through the motions. There's no feeling, you forget even why you do these silly thing you do. I mean, you comb your hair because you want to look decent. But why do you want to look decent? That's what I mean.
And putting socks on. There's a plent of reasons to do that. Maybe your feet are cold, and maybe you're about to go for a walk. In which case, you would need socks. But if someone were to ask you all the things you did that day, you wouldn't mention putting your socks on. Because in a way, it doesn't matter to you. Although if you hadn't put socks on and went for a walk, you would have gotten blisters.
When I sat on the couch, the tears were waiting for me. Instead of the other way around. I glanced absently at the clock, and before I looked away, the tears were already sitting on the edge of my eyes. I didn't weep always. There nights like this where I just bowed my head and let gravity take them to the wood floor.
"Not tonight." The screen door had shut as quitely as it was opened. And he was already by my side. He bent down swiftly and messily brushed his lips against my cheek before his hands found their favorite place on my hips and he tugged me up off the couch.
I stood before him and he stood before me. His determined attitude had melted in a matter of seconds. And now our breath was at a stand still, hanging in mid air.
His eyes were aching. The way they were looking at me. The way they hung over me. The way they glossed over.
And now for the first time, it looked like he was about to cry. That Dallas Winston was about to cry.
Just like any other routine, after a while, you just go through the motions. There's no feeling, you forget even why you do these silly thing you do. I mean, you comb your hair because you want to look decent. But why do you want to look decent? That's what I mean.
And putting socks on. There's a plent of reasons to do that. Maybe your feet are cold, and maybe you're about to go for a walk. In which case, you would need socks. But if someone were to ask you all the things you did that day, you wouldn't mention putting your socks on. Because in a way, it doesn't matter to you. Although if you hadn't put socks on and went for a walk, you would have gotten blisters.
When I sat on the couch, the tears were waiting for me. Instead of the other way around. I glanced absently at the clock, and before I looked away, the tears were already sitting on the edge of my eyes. I didn't weep always. There nights like this where I just bowed my head and let gravity take them to the wood floor.
"Not tonight." The screen door had shut as quitely as it was opened. And he was already by my side. He bent down swiftly and messily brushed his lips against my cheek before his hands found their favorite place on my hips and he tugged me up off the couch.
I stood before him and he stood before me. His determined attitude had melted in a matter of seconds. And now our breath was at a stand still, hanging in mid air.
His eyes were aching. The way they were looking at me. The way they hung over me. The way they glossed over.
And now for the first time, it looked like he was about to cry. That Dallas Winston was about to cry.