Hands
One
She sits leaning across the table, her eyes lowered and long fingernails twirling the straw in her drink. Her clothes are clingy and immodest, just like her. As she speaks I fail to hear words, the lines on her skin were undeniable, she'd aged while I'd been gone. I thought I'd missed her, so many plane trips away, in strange corners of the world I'd felt longing for her raspy voice and the ratty ends of her hair. But here, sitting at this metal uneven table, in an overpriced restaurant with moisture in the air, I felt nothing. Nothing for this place, and nothing for her.
'So, what does the universe taste like?' She tries to lure me with that soft voice, and she leans further over the table, her hair brushing the salt shaker. She's desperate. I don't answer, and she doesn't seem to mind, she was always the one who did the talking. Her feet nudge mine under the table, I am unresponsive and she pulls a cigarette out of her pocket. Smoke billows into my face and I try to ignore the smell I always hated. Forever an unattractive habit of hers.
In an unpredictable moment, she drops the cigarette still alight upon the table and grabs my hands flat on the metal table. Her head lunges for mine, and her lips move purposefully and fast, mine move back, yet it is still the same.
I feel nothing, and the nothingness is cold. If I could've answerered her question, I would've said cold. The universe tastes cold.
~~~
His stupid little face, blank as ever, as if I don't know what he's thinking. Prat. He left me for three months, and they were the hardest. I expected things to go back to normal as soon as he returned, but now I know they won't and it hurts. I feel uncomfortable, things weren't supposed to turn out like this. He was supposed to come rushing back, revived, full of even more love for me. He would sit me on his lap and a thousand exotic, erotic, dazzling stories would spill from his mouth like a waterfall.
He never answers my questions, raspberries I think silently. The universe tastes like raspberries but I just want you to tell me about Venice and Morrocco and all the places you've been, people you've seen. Have you missed me? I lurch for his hands, soft as velvet. When we first met, I fell in love with his hands first and my love for him followed. I think about his hands, his hands on my chest, and my mother's hands, cold on my feverish forehead, my hands wrapped around the handle of a bottle of milk, my hands slamming the door, hands, hands, hands. Our hands forever locked together.
I've missed him so much it hurts, but I'm nothing to him now. My eyes are wet and stinging, so I rush forward to hide it. And his lips, they taste like raspberries, because he is my world and my universe.
~~~
'So, what does the universe taste like?' She tries to lure me with that soft voice, and she leans further over the table, her hair brushing the salt shaker. She's desperate. I don't answer, and she doesn't seem to mind, she was always the one who did the talking. Her feet nudge mine under the table, I am unresponsive and she pulls a cigarette out of her pocket. Smoke billows into my face and I try to ignore the smell I always hated. Forever an unattractive habit of hers.
In an unpredictable moment, she drops the cigarette still alight upon the table and grabs my hands flat on the metal table. Her head lunges for mine, and her lips move purposefully and fast, mine move back, yet it is still the same.
I feel nothing, and the nothingness is cold. If I could've answerered her question, I would've said cold. The universe tastes cold.
~~~
His stupid little face, blank as ever, as if I don't know what he's thinking. Prat. He left me for three months, and they were the hardest. I expected things to go back to normal as soon as he returned, but now I know they won't and it hurts. I feel uncomfortable, things weren't supposed to turn out like this. He was supposed to come rushing back, revived, full of even more love for me. He would sit me on his lap and a thousand exotic, erotic, dazzling stories would spill from his mouth like a waterfall.
He never answers my questions, raspberries I think silently. The universe tastes like raspberries but I just want you to tell me about Venice and Morrocco and all the places you've been, people you've seen. Have you missed me? I lurch for his hands, soft as velvet. When we first met, I fell in love with his hands first and my love for him followed. I think about his hands, his hands on my chest, and my mother's hands, cold on my feverish forehead, my hands wrapped around the handle of a bottle of milk, my hands slamming the door, hands, hands, hands. Our hands forever locked together.
I've missed him so much it hurts, but I'm nothing to him now. My eyes are wet and stinging, so I rush forward to hide it. And his lips, they taste like raspberries, because he is my world and my universe.
~~~