Milou [2/3]
anonymous
December 31 2009, 07:52:47 UTC
We didn’t exchange full stories, only volumes of truth. I was alone and broke, you were alone and broken: the only things we knew for sure because anything else would never be touched. I would never tell you who left me alone, though you knew deep inside. I’d sing epics instead about why I was broke. And you, you were alone your whole life so you did not speak of it. But you never told me why she died, even as we passed the coffin makers (I never knew why they decided to set up there. It was off-putting, the whole place. No one liked it.)
"Awful here, isn't it?" You had said one time, not even looking at me with your deep, sad eyes-- that's another thing I'll remember, your sad green eyes set below your dark brows-- as you gestured at the streets we walked. "Why don't you move? There was another apartment not too far from here. Much better neighbourhood." I shrugged and stole a cigarette from your pocket, fishing for a lighter while I was at it. "Too expensive. And I'm unemployed right now." Though what I really meant was ‘I like it here, I grew up here.’ In your way, you still knew what I had meant and responded with a small 'oh'-- you and your manners, it'd come at the strangest times-- as you burrowed deeper into your clean-cut jacket. It was evening, the sun had already finished setting. You excused yourself, mumbling into your scarf ‘I’m sorry, take care’ as we stopped in front of my apartment. I should have invited you in but I was so cold. Colder than I ever was inside. “Good night. Take care.” And you’d smiled slowly “I’ll try, Anaïs.” But you were gone before I could ever correct your pronunciation.
I was convinced you wouldn't come back. ‘Anaïs’ seemed to be the end of our-- I wouldn’t call it ‘affair’. But you did, just as drunk as before with a stack of poems packed inside your jacket.
You arrived with rum on your breath and a name on your lips. I let you in just like the last time, accepting all your drunken mumbling as I offered my dusty floor in return. You spoke without end, without sense, and didn't touch me (kiss me, tell me that you were sorry) like the first time. I sat next to you to watch you in your slow, drunken stupor call a name I hated ('Anne', though you could hardly say ‘Anaïs’), and a name I didn't know ('Elizabeth', you never told me how she died). When I laid my blanket over you, you twisted and turned as if to try to choke yourself on it and I was probably right since we'd both wanted to die at that time. I took it away so that your bones would feel the chill I felt every night, shushed you so that I could kiss you on your feverish forehead below your messy head of blonde. In the morning, the sunlight pouring all over your face, you'd awoken and stayed for a while.
I wonder if you knew that when you recited your poetry at the sun, you’d already stolen my heart. And I remember back then, before you were an intelligent, hopeless drunk that you were effortless as if you breathed the very language of the artists. You were more than brilliant: you were a genius. In your loneliness you spited your fellows with Donne then turned around to love with Shakespeare. As surreal as the words you spoke. I hated that. But I loved it too because it was so very you, even if back then I cherished life more than anything.
The last line was spoken and you started to dress again as if nothing ever happened. I stopped you and said ‘why don’t you stay?’ to which you responded ‘I can’t’. Then I asked ‘what happened to her’ you blubbered out ‘she died’ and I knew now for sure that you were not the same person from those lyrical days. You should have said ‘she passed on like the Lady of Shalott’.
But after that I had proof: our hearts were damaged goods. Is that how you found me, Arthur? Because we were both hurt?
"Awful here, isn't it?" You had said one time, not even looking at me with your deep, sad eyes-- that's another thing I'll remember, your sad green eyes set below your dark brows-- as you gestured at the streets we walked. "Why don't you move? There was another apartment not too far from here. Much better neighbourhood." I shrugged and stole a cigarette from your pocket, fishing for a lighter while I was at it. "Too expensive. And I'm unemployed right now." Though what I really meant was ‘I like it here, I grew up here.’ In your way, you still knew what I had meant and responded with a small 'oh'-- you and your manners, it'd come at the strangest times-- as you burrowed deeper into your clean-cut jacket. It was evening, the sun had already finished setting. You excused yourself, mumbling into your scarf ‘I’m sorry, take care’ as we stopped in front of my apartment. I should have invited you in but I was so cold. Colder than I ever was inside. “Good night. Take care.” And you’d smiled slowly “I’ll try, Anaïs.” But you were gone before I could ever correct your pronunciation.
I was convinced you wouldn't come back. ‘Anaïs’ seemed to be the end of our-- I wouldn’t call it ‘affair’. But you did, just as drunk as before with a stack of poems packed inside your jacket.
You arrived with rum on your breath and a name on your lips. I let you in just like the last time, accepting all your drunken mumbling as I offered my dusty floor in return. You spoke without end, without sense, and didn't touch me (kiss me, tell me that you were sorry) like the first time. I sat next to you to watch you in your slow, drunken stupor call a name I hated ('Anne', though you could hardly say ‘Anaïs’), and a name I didn't know ('Elizabeth', you never told me how she died). When I laid my blanket over you, you twisted and turned as if to try to choke yourself on it and I was probably right since we'd both wanted to die at that time. I took it away so that your bones would feel the chill I felt every night, shushed you so that I could kiss you on your feverish forehead below your messy head of blonde. In the morning, the sunlight pouring all over your face, you'd awoken and stayed for a while.
I wonder if you knew that when you recited your poetry at the sun, you’d already stolen my heart. And I remember back then, before you were an intelligent, hopeless drunk that you were effortless as if you breathed the very language of the artists. You were more than brilliant: you were a genius. In your loneliness you spited your fellows with Donne then turned around to love with Shakespeare. As surreal as the words you spoke. I hated that. But I loved it too because it was so very you, even if back then I cherished life more than anything.
The last line was spoken and you started to dress again as if nothing ever happened. I stopped you and said ‘why don’t you stay?’ to which you responded ‘I can’t’. Then I asked ‘what happened to her’ you blubbered out ‘she died’ and I knew now for sure that you were not the same person from those lyrical days. You should have said ‘she passed on like the Lady of Shalott’.
But after that I had proof: our hearts were damaged goods. Is that how you found me, Arthur? Because we were both hurt?
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