The Story of He and She.
i.
“I can’t feel anything.”
Those were the first words she ever heard him say. She had followed him from the waiting room in the dim hospital, worried for the boy with the dull grey eyes. She had stayed in step with him, approximately twelve feet behind him as he made his way through the halls effortlessly, like the twists and turns were something he had long since memorized.
He walked to the staircase, then to the ground floor entrance, then to the curb where he promptly sat and took out a cigarette before his eyes found hers. “Are you okay?” Her voice tittered out, losing some of its already soft volume in the harsh wind. He didn’t respond, just focused on getting the damn cig to light. Finally getting the fire to catch he inhales deeply, and soon after his shaking fingers stop dancing across the hole in the knee of his jeans.
She shifts side to side, uncomfortable with the eerie silence. “I can’t feel anything.” He answers her question, his voice not quite what she was expecting. It’s rough and hoarse, the voice of someone who didn’t talk a whole lot. “That’s okay,” she sits down beside him, tilting her head back to glance at the clouds, “I don’t quite feel anything either.” And so they found comfort in their aloneness, together.
Those were the first words she ever heard him say. She had followed him from the waiting room in the dim hospital, worried for the boy with the dull grey eyes. She had stayed in step with him, approximately twelve feet behind him as he made his way through the halls effortlessly, like the twists and turns were something he had long since memorized.
He walked to the staircase, then to the ground floor entrance, then to the curb where he promptly sat and took out a cigarette before his eyes found hers. “Are you okay?” Her voice tittered out, losing some of its already soft volume in the harsh wind. He didn’t respond, just focused on getting the damn cig to light. Finally getting the fire to catch he inhales deeply, and soon after his shaking fingers stop dancing across the hole in the knee of his jeans.
She shifts side to side, uncomfortable with the eerie silence. “I can’t feel anything.” He answers her question, his voice not quite what she was expecting. It’s rough and hoarse, the voice of someone who didn’t talk a whole lot. “That’s okay,” she sits down beside him, tilting her head back to glance at the clouds, “I don’t quite feel anything either.” And so they found comfort in their aloneness, together.