Divided

He lies on the sofa, head propped up on a pillow and his torso bare. He is lean, not very muscular, and pale-skinned. In his hand he holds a book; a nice-looking notebook, its cover clad in satin with a flower pattern on it. It’s her book, he says, and he wants me to read it with him. That way, he won’t be the only culprit. I sit in my overly large sweater in the near-by armchair, my legs pulled up to my chest and hands hidden in the sleeves. I ask him where he’s got it, and he says he found it on her bedside table. She never notices when her things disappears, he says, so we’re out of harm’s way for now. I look at him there on the couch, with the book resting against his thighs as his legs are pulled up to form a triangle, the bottom line made up of the sofa cushion. I ask him why he’s still with her, when it’s so obvious she doesn’t care enough to see his problems, when she’s so naïve, when he could find someone so much better than her. He shrugs, replying that it’s probably got something to do with love. When I ask if it’s his or her love, he doesn’t reply.

He urges me again to read the book with him, changing his position on the sofa so that there’s space for me next to him. I remain in my chair, not sure I want to read it. He holds the book up to the lamplight, the shade falling over his face as he idly knocks it against the lampshade. There are probably a few things about him in there, he guesses. I still don’t know if I want to read it. What if she finds out? Whose side am I on, he wants to know, smiling slightly as he asks. Another invitation for me to lie down next to him on the sofa, and this time I comply, finding a comfortable position with my head on his shoulder, effectively also becoming his headrest. One arm around me, he opens the book, clad in red satin, and we both read it together, reading out paragraphs to each other and laughing, rolling our eyes, frowning.

Dear diary,
He can be such a jerk sometimes. He left me alone at the party last night.

The writings are randomly scattered over half a year, some of them happy, some of them sad, some of them angry, some of them venomous enough to eat holes in the pages. Most of those entries are about him. The more we read, the more I begin to question their relationship. It’s not my business, and up until now I haven’t bothered with it, but when reading these texts, I begin to wonder what either one of them gets out of it in the end. He’s going behind her back with his drug use and she’s naïve enough not to notice. They have regular fights, after which he seeks refuge in me and my motherly instincts to take care of him.

The feeling of his fingers in my hair is very pleasing, and my eyelids start to close ever so slowly. It’s something I’ve always been weak for, ever since when I was little, my older sister would comb through my hair with her fingers when putting me to sleep at night. I guess it’s a subconscious association, but it’s nice nevertheless. When he reads another line out loud, I laugh and let my head loll slightly to the side, against his hand, like a cat will rub itself against your hand when you pet it. As he carefully kisses my ear, my eyes open again and I turn my face toward him, eyes averted to his bare chest. He’s got a tattoo on the right side of it, a stylized heart with small writing on it. Latin. I’ve never asked what it means, and I don’t ask now either. My lips are slightly parted, but I’ve got nothing to say. After a while of silence I sit up, not leaving the couch but sitting up perhaps to distance myself from him a bit. He flips a page in her diary, reading another paragraph out loud.

I kissed another boy today. He doesn’t know. I don’t think I will do that again. I love him.

Without a word, I lay down next to him again. I know who that boy was. He does too. He meets him at work every day. We’re just reading now, no fingers in my hair, just the arm around my shoulder, holding the book steady. I correct my position, my head on his chest, and he says my sweater makes his skin prickle. I say his scars make my chin itch. We’re even then, he says and turns another page.