The room smells of sex, still and dark and silent compared to moments ago. She lies on her stomach, facing away towards the wall in a drunken, and hopefully, pleased heap. The jury's still out on that one.
We met at the bar. She was pretty, inviting, an(more)d full of wit. I was sad, drunk, and apparently did just enough to keep up. It's funny how the right amount of self-deprecation and cranberry vodkas can make depression come off as sweet, dare I say charming. I don't get girls.
This is the part where I'm supposed to let out a satisfying sigh, light up my cig, take in a deep inhale of celebratory carcinogens, and place my arms behind my head in victory. Except that's the last thing I want to do. Not only because I'm not sure if she smokes -- we didn't cover how either of us felt about lung cancer when I found myself hitting on her -- but more importantly, because She is not Her.
Her is long fucking gone, and winding up in bed with another girl is the biggest reminder of that. (less)
We were a couple on opposite sides of the spectrum. Linda was adventurous and daring, always after that next big thrill. Last year it was the snowboarding craze. This year it was archery. I tagged along of course, as any good boyfriend should. I tried my best to enjoy(more) these activities, but it just wouldn't take. She would just tease me, "Oh Simon, stop being such a grumpy moose."
How I hated being called a moose.
So one day I sat her down and looked her straight in the eye. I had semi-practiced a speech in front of the mirror a few hours prior. One could not go into these things blind you know.
"Darling, you know I love you." She nodded.
"I come with you to your outdoor pursuits."
"You drag your feet," she interjected.
"Yes, well there is good reason for that. I'm just not that kinda guy."
"So what are you saying. You want to break up?"
"No, no. Nothing like that. Listen, here's a plan I concocted."
I pulled out a printed sheet covered in monthly timetables. "You know my friend Matty?" I asked.
"Yes... Where is this going Simon?"
"Well you see, I thought it would be a good idea, him being into these sorts of pursuits, that he for the duration of these activities take my place. As a sort of stand in."
"You want to split boyfriend duties?"
I pointed at the tables. "Now you just pick the date you next want to do archery or what have you, and I'll arrange with Matty to go with you. And when you get back I'll be here waiting for you, ready for our movie marathons."
Linda paused. "About those movie marathons..."(less)
the girl who holds her hand, who kisses her face and whispers sweet things in her ear is not her equal. the girl she loves is an angel, and the girl who she is, isn't.
she is heaven, condensed int(more)o one girl. she is everything that is beautiful on the earth, with skin softer than silk and hair brighter than all of the suns in the universe. her laugh, when it frequently tears itself from her lips, is not unlike the sound of angels.
the girl she loves- the girl who loves her- smiles at her and asks why she's so unhappy, and there isn't one answer she can use.
"it's because i love you," she wants to say- no, she wants to scream it. she wants to stand in front of that girl- that radiant, beautiful girl- and proclaim that her sadness is because of her. "it's because i love you, and you are beautiful, and i am not. it's because you can take everything in your stride, and i am left behind here and i can't find my way. it's because i want to never leave you, and i want to hug you every day and never let you go."
and that just shows it, she thinks to herself. that just shows the imbalance: how perfect her girlfriend is, how imperfect she is.
the girl with the beautiful hair stops for a moment, says nothing uncharacteristically, and then whispers, "i feel the same way, every day."
They were an odd couple, the programmer and the Red Right Hand, though Pieter thought that if she had to make a choice she would not have picked anyone different. Cassius dissaproved strongly, of course, but then again he dissaproved of nearly everything, from the noises made by the(more) neighbors during the wee hours of the night to the color of the carpet; Razor was no exception.
"She is," Cassius had said very slowly after Pieter explained their relationship, "a homunculus. Do you know what that means?"
"I can still 'ear you," Razor called from the living room. "An' it don' mean nothin', ye ken?" Metal rasped sharply against metal and Cassius shuddered and slapped his hands over his ears.
"Rude," he muttered.
"You're one to talk," scoffed Pieter. "If you've got nothing else to say, I'm off. I've got a date tonight, you know."
"A date," said Cassius, rolling the word around in his mouth like a piece of glass. "Dates. Dinner and candles and kissing. Ugh. Dates and homunculi and stupid roommates. Don't come crying to me when she forgets where she's at and kills someone."
"You're thick," said Cassius. "So fucking THICK. She's a killing machine, born and bred. It's what she's FOR. Or have you failed to notice what they've done to her hand?"
Razor's right hand was made of her name, the fingers jagged shards of metal that could slice through skin like nobody's business. People stared. Pieter tried not to care.
"Look, just because you've never managed to have a single stable relationship doesn't mean you have to go taking it out on other people."
That shut Cassius up quickly enough.
They were an odd couple, Pieter thought - the programmer and the Red Right Hand. She liked it. (less)