He tells me that I’m edgy. The sound of the waves dies in the force of the wind. His fingers trail down the back of my arm and I shiver. A gust of wind swallows us whole and in the vacuum, I wonder what it would be like to jump.
—
There were some things that were easy. Small things, like slippers by the front door. or hands that smelled like vinegar after a meal. They often tell you it’s about the small things.
—
Later, I look at photos in cheap plastic frames. Alone in his room, faces look back at me. Faces of women with hair and wide smiles. Faces of men with goofy eyes and cups half empty. He’s there too, in every photo, head turned down or to the side.
—
When I would search back into the memories, it felt like I was reading a book. The cloak of each character was roomy enough to slip in and out of. roomy enough to let in the wind.
—
After dinner, we fuck. Orange light from the street lamp filters in through the gap in the blinds. I can’t tell if I want this. Stripes of orange curve around our bodies, the bed. He shifts, flipping me over, and I realize I don’t care.
—
He told me a story once about his old apartment, with views of the city. and in the building next door, a woman in a white dress, surrounded by smiling faces. he couldn’t remember what she looked like.
—
I wake up yelling, remnants of some generic nightmare trail down my cheeks. Eyes closed still, I hear his voice, soothing tones. In the haze of sleepy confusion, I push his body away.
—
I was always honest with him, but somethings were easy to lie about. Other things weren’t so much. And I can’t remember now what was, and what wasn’t.
Home Sweet Home 