Ribs

The real test of friendship is; can you literally do nothing with the other person? Can you enjoy those moments of life that are completely simple? If the answer is yes, then you needn't worry about a thing.

Even though my answer is always yes, I find it hard to comprehend. If I don't need to worry, then what on earth am I supposed to do? There is always something to worry about, something to give allowance to the gnawing anxiety in my gut.

It's midday and the snow has stopped. If I dare to pluck myself from the weight of needed slumber I know that I'll see the streets outside ladled with white ice, but my spine seems stuck and my limbs lead. I have, however, been awake since the moment Noel and I collapsed in a concoction of teeth marks and scratches, my hands in his hair with breathless words to say "Now, sleep."

Finally he obliged, despite the continuous desire of his to fight fatigue, rosy lips drawing strings of drunken obscenities until his head found heavy peace in the crook of my neck. I remained awake to the sounds of my mother leaving for work at six, eyes like embers into the void of my bedroom ceiling.

Now, as soon as his eyes blink open, glassy and doe, I squeeze mine shut.

"You awake?"

It's a silly question, really. He knows I never sleep anymore.

"No." I say, eyelids glued.

"Oh, well, bugger." I feel him shift, hangover apparent by the rasp in his voice. "I was hopin' you'd 'elp me make tea."

"I can do better than tea." I sigh with a stretch, wiping the soreness from my swollen sockets. "I can do cereal, coco pops, if you're lucky."

"Hmm," he purrs, lips warm and wet with mine. "you, my little beauty, are an absolute diamond."

I have to slap myself in the face, mentally, of course, because when he pulls away, all pink cheeked and hair in every direction, I almost say "love you, Noel." and I can't say that because that's not what we are about.

So, instead I say "Right then, I'll pop the kettle on."

He follows me down to the kitchen, scrambling into my dressing gown on his way. "Oh, do you 'ave them little biscuits?" He asks, helping himself to the bread bin. "Y'know, the little ones with the luv'eart and the jammy stuff in the middle? Y'know, the ones I like?"

I shove the biscuit tin in his direction, failing to ignore the way his face lights like a child's upon finding the Jammy Dodgers. I make breakfast, more like lunch, for two, leaving our bowls in the dishwasher because I still haven't read the direction manual.

"D'you want me come 'round later on?" He says, planting a kiss on my forehead, pale fingers ready to open the front door. "Yes." I say without hesitation, as quickly as I know he says yes to the vices I must do without. "Yes," I say and he grins, elfin and toothy and everything him. "yes, I'll wait up for you, Jack Skellington mug at the ready."

"'Mazin, I'll catch ya' later m'lovely." And with that he goes, boots sinking ankle high in the snow. It isn't until later when my mother opens the dishwasher and says "It's good you had company today, it's good for you." that I allow my tattered mind to give him another thought. "Sarah came over." I tell her, because it's easier to avoid the truth when he's out feeding the habits that make me feel so small.

'Pointless,' one may say, 'futile,' another may think. 'That will never be enough.'

I'd tell them it's love.

'In what world?' They'd laugh. 'Why?'

Because, if you love someone, and keep loving them, without being loved back, then that love has to be real. It hurts too much to be anything else.