cinnamon swirl peppermint
Author: ssundaysunday
Title: Moving
Flavors: cinnamon swirl 26 (too little too late) peppermint 16 (fence)
Rating: PG13
Story: I am.
Summary/Notes: Okay. I was looking through the prompts and these two in particular really made me think of something ancient buried in the depths of my computer, which was essentially the oldest bit of Marigold's story. Its from the very, very original incarnation of her which I first wrote about um, 4-5 years ago. So I dug it up and reworked it a bit to match more of who she became, and to incorporate the prompts a little bit more. I hope that's not against the rules. =/
Anyway, this is a bit of her sorta-manic drug induced babbling, but it also explains where she's coming from for a large part of the story. The only part that even comes close to who she is for 99% of the story is the very last paragraph though, since the rest is either a flashback to years ago or drugged up.
Crazy Story: Also, something that is probably not interesting but that I think is kinda cool: I took out a large part of the rambling description of the house, but I reread the original a few months ago and realize the house I described (in grade nine) was identical to the house that a friend of mine (who I met long after this was written) lives in. The entire outside is exactly as I imagined this house to look, except really well kept. He even has the same brown eyes and I don't know, its just weird.
7:58 I sit in bed and grind my teeth together. I wait for the advil to kick in. There are bricks hanging from my eyelids. I’m trying not to think but my head is spinning. I wish you luck, I want to see your face. In your time of need how impossibly far from thinking of me would you be? What do you have that’s so great that I don’t have? I worry about your prefect-in-the-eyes-of-god soul all the time. Because you’re perfect in the eyes of God. Because one out of every ten waking minutes I say a tiny prayer to the world for your well being. Because every good deed I do is in hopes that the karma will sometime pass through you. want to close my eyes for the part where I know you’ll do wrong. I’m just a blind animal now, because I need to believe that everything you do is right and strong and better than everything I do. I’m visualising your eyes, your big brown eyes. It’s just not meaningful to visualize a nose or mouth, but mostly I communicate with your mouth, not your eyes. Here is the day I left you in Manitoba:
6:00 AM I become aware of my consciousness. I can never remember what it feels like to wake up. The first thing I really think is SOMETHING IMPORTANT IS HAPPENING TODAY. This is where reality becomes unaware. I’m asleep on my bedroom floor in a fortress of boxes. My toothbrush and a pill bottle are conscienciously rested on top of the nearest box. I must have put them there. I feel mildly clever but mildly offended. If they weren’t so expensive, if it wouldn’t poison the Earth, I’d throw them out my window. But I put them in my backpack instead. I’m sleeping in my clothes, a left over Moving Day ritual from when I was a kid. I wonder if I should go to your house looking bad or not. I brush my teeth and sit on a box. I feel so mellow with the birds songs napping on my window sill. The early morning light resting on my face and bare legs. I remember in minute detail staring at the soft blonde hairs that I never bothered to shave on my thighs. I remember being as crushingly disappointed as I have ever felt. The weight of Us resting on my stiff shoulders. I remember the last time you were mortal when I sat on your front porch in denim shorts and a gray sweatshirt, with August’s soft fur rubbing up against my leg. I remember my brain for once the pace of a snail remembering you asking me why do cats rub against things when they walk by them. It’s because they want that thing to know it belongs to them. They leave their scent on it.
I remember discovering August in a dumpster behind my building. She was tiny and malnourished and the yellow-gold-cream colour of August. It was one of the darker, more haunted Januarys and she was freezing to death. No one was looking for her, and to think. This tiny angel that brought you back to life was then just another name for death.
August is long and lean and her coat is full as she reminds me I am hers. Her fur is breaking free and floating away on invisible breezes. It’s a hot summer. I kiss her nose and everything I remember crushes me again. I gave her to you in early January. I told you I know how winter gets you down, I know I forgot to buy you a Christmas present. I know you’re here alone. I feel my ghost’s body buckling, I’m glad that I’m not prepared to cry quite yet. I think I’m trying to, I’m pushing myself farther. I need to cry so I’ll know for sure that This Is Sad. I imagine the main street and the highway and the lake. Snow Lake. I remember being 9 and running to the lake and thinking, finally. Mom said this is home now. You were there, eleven years old throwing stones at ducks and feeling sick with guilt every time. Perversely fascinated. You were thin and sullen. Your eyes were much too big for your face and I know I probably thought you were immeasurably old. I thought you looked like an owl, I thought you must be wise. You don’t remember me, I know. When I saw you the next time in junior high I guessed it was you because of your owl eyes. I said I think you were the first person I saw here and told you that charming little story and you said “oh yeah I think I remember that.” I swallowed that story whole until the day you stopped lying.
I only came to see August. You knew where to reach me. I didn’t want to risk a long goodbye. I know the only place I’m still safe is in the little mossy cracks where tiny forests grow and small fairies are. I don’t know why I’m thinking about fairies right now.
So this is what it feels like for a place to evoke memories. I rub August’s tummy. Your mom must be at work so I knock your door. I’m staring at the peeling white paint around those big brass numbers. You live in number 69. I always laugh about that. Every. Damn. Time. I remind myself to take a mental image of you to remember forever. My fingers shake a little and August’s brushing up against my legs again. I scoop her up and kiss her warm fur between the ears.
Your house is old. I disappear into the patterns in the peeling white paint. I absorb myself in tinier and tinier details until the regret uncoils itself from it’s vice grip on my body and slithers away. There used to be a garden in your front yard. The grass hasn’t been cut and I can see the neglected remnants of spray painted green chicken wire wrapped around the tall, tall tree that brushes against your window at night and used to make you think ghosts were visiting. Your mailbox is empty and black and plastic with two bronze rectangles bearing two black numbers. There are cobwebs behind it and a place for newspapers that you don’t get. There are dandelions and wild flowers growing in your front yard and a hose attached to the side of the building. You’ve got one of those screen doors in front of your front door - the screen has a few holes in it and one corner is coming out. There’s dirt gathered in the corners. I think I see a tiny red spider. This kind of door is always awkward for tick-or-treaters.
I look up at your window and consider throwing rocks at it. But to be honest the most likely outcome would be that I’d think it was hilarious and you wouldn’t get it, and then I’d hit myself in the head with a rock on the rebound. Then you’d tell me that if it had happened to you I’d be laughing because I’m that mean. Then our last (for now) conversation would be a fight. Inside I can make out your curtains which are sloppy and pulled back. Probably I am just filling in the gaps with previous memories here but your curtains are white with eyelets and lace trim. Not very manly at all. Hey, I can see your face through the glass!
“Mmmmm hi,” you’re saying from where you’re standing in the front door. “I thought you weren’t going to come today.”
I can’t tell if you were trying to say my name or ‘um’.
My mind is a video camera now for this last morning. My mental snapshot: your messy hair is getting in your owl eyes. There’s a light polluted milky way of freckles on the bridge of your nose. I never, ever want to forget. How did we get here? You could be the only thing that’s strong in my entire lifetime, and that could be enough. That can’t be right.
Even so, I say: “Well I can go if you’d prefer.”
You tell me to save it, that you don’t want your last (for now) memory of me to be of me being a little brat.
“Hey,” I say. “I decided what I’m going to change.”
“Tell me please.”
“I’m going to be a kind person.” I’m already thinking of all the sarcastic things I could say in response to that if I hadn’t said it.
On a whim, I decide that kind people are honest. So I add “I just thought of about 7 sarcastic retorts to that.”
Your laugh cracks in the dry air, hoarse and adolescent. You wish me good luck. You’re still mortal and I wonder if we appear equal. Your house smells like pancakes and I say I’ll make some for you.
“Uh, as long as some doesn’t mean martinis or anything.”
I wonder if I’ll miss your god awful sense of humor.
I’m standing in your kitchen and every time I shift my weight the floorboards creak. Your house looks pleasant and sunny. It smells of nuclear family and loving golden labs. I feel deceived. I’m about to talk and I’m cringing a little bit thinking about this part because even then I was thinking oh just close your mouth and have a good morning. Good thing I’m not in the army because I suck at orders.
“You know I’m probably about to start babbling uncontrollably now and every single time I look back on this day I’ll feel like a dork,” I’m saying without my own consent. “But um why does your house smell like pancakes and how long until I get to smell them again except at Denny’s and uh. I don’t know why I said that I’ve never even been to Denny’s because well you know I HATE breakfast and those lines people get on top of their mouths when they smoke too much which is exactly what Denny’s makes me think of. And um well I just hope you still remember all the promises you made me because I’m gonna make sure you uhh, is that a bag of dog shit?”
You make sure I’m done and then say: “It’s stuff you left in my house.” We pause, and laugh. And pause again. I want you to keep it all, but I probably need whatever’s in there. I want to ask why you put it in one of those bags they give out in park so people can clean up after their dogs. More importantly, why you even have one of those bags, since you’ve never had a dog. You hate dogs. My things are going to leave your house. Why do all the parts of me that lived with you fit in a tiny plastic bag? No amount of dwelling made me want to cry. I tried to force tears. Just to feel normal. But taking this little plastic bag from your bigger hands is tearing me apart and all of a sudden I’m forcing back the tears I was trying to coax out half an hour ago.
You say there’s lots stuff for pancakes in the cupboards if I know how to make them from scratch.
The floor is cold against my bare feet.
“I need a recipe, or something. You can’t just make this stuff up.”
“You made me hungry,” you say with a distinctive pout.
“You’ve got a family of elephants sized bag of uh…” I’m bad with words. “Cereal.”
“No milk,” you retort.
“Um,” I don’t know what to say. We’re terrible at avoiding things. But we’re also terrible at talking about things.
“…let’s talk about you,” you’re probably trying to sound gentle. You just sound really quiet and difficult to hear.
“I’m leaving,” I offer.
“Yeah, lets talk about that.”
“How come?” I wonder if questions like this make me sound dumb. I know why, I just wanted to hear what you’d come up with. I know its my last chance to sink into your crazy mind and beautiful ways it works.
You seem to think about it forever. The look on your face is of pure concentration. “We’ve talked about breakfast a lot.” I wonder if things like that make you sound dumb.
“It never ends well.”
Silence.
“Ugh well,” I sigh. “Maybe people will laugh at my jokes where I’m going.”
You give me a distinct that was a joke? look. But all you say is “Okay.”
“I’m sorry. Let’s leave games out. Uh I mean, mind games. Or whatever.” I cringe. I hate this talk.
“Okay, what time are you going?”
“I guess whenever my parents get here. When you were little did you ever go to friend’s houses and hide there when your parents came to get you?” In the time it take you to process the information and answer me I’ve already made a bet with myself on the answer. It’s always something depressing.
“No,” You pause. “Didn’t have any friends.”
I think: called it. I say: “Yeah you did.”
“Well... I don’t know. What are you going to do in Hope?”
“High school.”
And it’s silence. And I say: “I feel like we should be cramming all the conversations we might miss out on in this time. Or something. We’re already out of things to say.”
“Um. I’ll miss you?” You sound wrong saying it. You’re not really a sayer, I guess. Mostly I’m just supposed to know.
“You know how I don’t like people to leave or things to change or end?”
“Yeah… I know that.” You’re speaking very sluggishly. Maybe I just forgot your voice.
“Well, ugh. This is like two ideas and I don’t know which to start with. Umm… Well I feel comfortable here. I don’t know I just like being here and it makes sense for me. I’m living here, uh I mean, not right here, but yeah I’m living here instead of staying here. Or something. So yeah it feels weird to be moving from you and… but that’s not the point. First, just, I don’t think that this should… be. People leaving or things changing or and end. Especially not and end.” I cringe more. The awkwardness does not mesh well with the desperation and fear I can hear in my own voice.
“Okay…”
“Please stay in touch… is what I meant.”
“Okay.”
“Oh but I think that you should know and I started before but it didn’t have anything to do with what I was saying but I feel weird that I’m the one that’s leaving. Like uh,” I stop to breathe. And try to figure out where the hell I’m going with this. “Well don’t you think it seems weird? Just ‘cause I’m usually the one… not leaving. You know, like I’m the one that’s… more dependent. And just always I’ve been, wanting to be around you. And you have more priorities kind of. Like uh a life for example, heh. And like, well. Yeah.”
You think, you think, you think. “If you didn’t leave next year I’d leave and you’d feel…” You think some more. “Left behind and… or bad about yourself when I move.”
“I’m used to that.”
And that's that. End scene.
I never noticed what bad talkers we were. But anyway it was hot in the car and stinky when we drove away and regret was a hot white pain in my forehead, or some dream I had. It was my jaw tight and stiff from Not Crying when I waved goodbye to you and then your house and then your town and then the tiny smudge on the horizon. Regret climbed off my shoulders and sank into my throat. She coiled herself into a collapsed supernova at the bottom of my stomach and slept there and sometimes she wakes up and digs long deep trenches in my insides with her ugly fangs. And sometimes I tell her to fuck off, that I’m not a halfway home.
Title: Moving
Flavors: cinnamon swirl 26 (too little too late) peppermint 16 (fence)
Rating: PG13
Story: I am.
Summary/Notes: Okay. I was looking through the prompts and these two in particular really made me think of something ancient buried in the depths of my computer, which was essentially the oldest bit of Marigold's story. Its from the very, very original incarnation of her which I first wrote about um, 4-5 years ago. So I dug it up and reworked it a bit to match more of who she became, and to incorporate the prompts a little bit more. I hope that's not against the rules. =/
Anyway, this is a bit of her sorta-manic drug induced babbling, but it also explains where she's coming from for a large part of the story. The only part that even comes close to who she is for 99% of the story is the very last paragraph though, since the rest is either a flashback to years ago or drugged up.
Crazy Story: Also, something that is probably not interesting but that I think is kinda cool: I took out a large part of the rambling description of the house, but I reread the original a few months ago and realize the house I described (in grade nine) was identical to the house that a friend of mine (who I met long after this was written) lives in. The entire outside is exactly as I imagined this house to look, except really well kept. He even has the same brown eyes and I don't know, its just weird.
7:58 I sit in bed and grind my teeth together. I wait for the advil to kick in. There are bricks hanging from my eyelids. I’m trying not to think but my head is spinning. I wish you luck, I want to see your face. In your time of need how impossibly far from thinking of me would you be? What do you have that’s so great that I don’t have? I worry about your prefect-in-the-eyes-of-god soul all the time. Because you’re perfect in the eyes of God. Because one out of every ten waking minutes I say a tiny prayer to the world for your well being. Because every good deed I do is in hopes that the karma will sometime pass through you. want to close my eyes for the part where I know you’ll do wrong. I’m just a blind animal now, because I need to believe that everything you do is right and strong and better than everything I do. I’m visualising your eyes, your big brown eyes. It’s just not meaningful to visualize a nose or mouth, but mostly I communicate with your mouth, not your eyes. Here is the day I left you in Manitoba:
6:00 AM I become aware of my consciousness. I can never remember what it feels like to wake up. The first thing I really think is SOMETHING IMPORTANT IS HAPPENING TODAY. This is where reality becomes unaware. I’m asleep on my bedroom floor in a fortress of boxes. My toothbrush and a pill bottle are conscienciously rested on top of the nearest box. I must have put them there. I feel mildly clever but mildly offended. If they weren’t so expensive, if it wouldn’t poison the Earth, I’d throw them out my window. But I put them in my backpack instead. I’m sleeping in my clothes, a left over Moving Day ritual from when I was a kid. I wonder if I should go to your house looking bad or not. I brush my teeth and sit on a box. I feel so mellow with the birds songs napping on my window sill. The early morning light resting on my face and bare legs. I remember in minute detail staring at the soft blonde hairs that I never bothered to shave on my thighs. I remember being as crushingly disappointed as I have ever felt. The weight of Us resting on my stiff shoulders. I remember the last time you were mortal when I sat on your front porch in denim shorts and a gray sweatshirt, with August’s soft fur rubbing up against my leg. I remember my brain for once the pace of a snail remembering you asking me why do cats rub against things when they walk by them. It’s because they want that thing to know it belongs to them. They leave their scent on it.
I remember discovering August in a dumpster behind my building. She was tiny and malnourished and the yellow-gold-cream colour of August. It was one of the darker, more haunted Januarys and she was freezing to death. No one was looking for her, and to think. This tiny angel that brought you back to life was then just another name for death.
August is long and lean and her coat is full as she reminds me I am hers. Her fur is breaking free and floating away on invisible breezes. It’s a hot summer. I kiss her nose and everything I remember crushes me again. I gave her to you in early January. I told you I know how winter gets you down, I know I forgot to buy you a Christmas present. I know you’re here alone. I feel my ghost’s body buckling, I’m glad that I’m not prepared to cry quite yet. I think I’m trying to, I’m pushing myself farther. I need to cry so I’ll know for sure that This Is Sad. I imagine the main street and the highway and the lake. Snow Lake. I remember being 9 and running to the lake and thinking, finally. Mom said this is home now. You were there, eleven years old throwing stones at ducks and feeling sick with guilt every time. Perversely fascinated. You were thin and sullen. Your eyes were much too big for your face and I know I probably thought you were immeasurably old. I thought you looked like an owl, I thought you must be wise. You don’t remember me, I know. When I saw you the next time in junior high I guessed it was you because of your owl eyes. I said I think you were the first person I saw here and told you that charming little story and you said “oh yeah I think I remember that.” I swallowed that story whole until the day you stopped lying.
I only came to see August. You knew where to reach me. I didn’t want to risk a long goodbye. I know the only place I’m still safe is in the little mossy cracks where tiny forests grow and small fairies are. I don’t know why I’m thinking about fairies right now.
So this is what it feels like for a place to evoke memories. I rub August’s tummy. Your mom must be at work so I knock your door. I’m staring at the peeling white paint around those big brass numbers. You live in number 69. I always laugh about that. Every. Damn. Time. I remind myself to take a mental image of you to remember forever. My fingers shake a little and August’s brushing up against my legs again. I scoop her up and kiss her warm fur between the ears.
Your house is old. I disappear into the patterns in the peeling white paint. I absorb myself in tinier and tinier details until the regret uncoils itself from it’s vice grip on my body and slithers away. There used to be a garden in your front yard. The grass hasn’t been cut and I can see the neglected remnants of spray painted green chicken wire wrapped around the tall, tall tree that brushes against your window at night and used to make you think ghosts were visiting. Your mailbox is empty and black and plastic with two bronze rectangles bearing two black numbers. There are cobwebs behind it and a place for newspapers that you don’t get. There are dandelions and wild flowers growing in your front yard and a hose attached to the side of the building. You’ve got one of those screen doors in front of your front door - the screen has a few holes in it and one corner is coming out. There’s dirt gathered in the corners. I think I see a tiny red spider. This kind of door is always awkward for tick-or-treaters.
I look up at your window and consider throwing rocks at it. But to be honest the most likely outcome would be that I’d think it was hilarious and you wouldn’t get it, and then I’d hit myself in the head with a rock on the rebound. Then you’d tell me that if it had happened to you I’d be laughing because I’m that mean. Then our last (for now) conversation would be a fight. Inside I can make out your curtains which are sloppy and pulled back. Probably I am just filling in the gaps with previous memories here but your curtains are white with eyelets and lace trim. Not very manly at all. Hey, I can see your face through the glass!
“Mmmmm hi,” you’re saying from where you’re standing in the front door. “I thought you weren’t going to come today.”
I can’t tell if you were trying to say my name or ‘um’.
My mind is a video camera now for this last morning. My mental snapshot: your messy hair is getting in your owl eyes. There’s a light polluted milky way of freckles on the bridge of your nose. I never, ever want to forget. How did we get here? You could be the only thing that’s strong in my entire lifetime, and that could be enough. That can’t be right.
Even so, I say: “Well I can go if you’d prefer.”
You tell me to save it, that you don’t want your last (for now) memory of me to be of me being a little brat.
“Hey,” I say. “I decided what I’m going to change.”
“Tell me please.”
“I’m going to be a kind person.” I’m already thinking of all the sarcastic things I could say in response to that if I hadn’t said it.
On a whim, I decide that kind people are honest. So I add “I just thought of about 7 sarcastic retorts to that.”
Your laugh cracks in the dry air, hoarse and adolescent. You wish me good luck. You’re still mortal and I wonder if we appear equal. Your house smells like pancakes and I say I’ll make some for you.
“Uh, as long as some doesn’t mean martinis or anything.”
I wonder if I’ll miss your god awful sense of humor.
I’m standing in your kitchen and every time I shift my weight the floorboards creak. Your house looks pleasant and sunny. It smells of nuclear family and loving golden labs. I feel deceived. I’m about to talk and I’m cringing a little bit thinking about this part because even then I was thinking oh just close your mouth and have a good morning. Good thing I’m not in the army because I suck at orders.
“You know I’m probably about to start babbling uncontrollably now and every single time I look back on this day I’ll feel like a dork,” I’m saying without my own consent. “But um why does your house smell like pancakes and how long until I get to smell them again except at Denny’s and uh. I don’t know why I said that I’ve never even been to Denny’s because well you know I HATE breakfast and those lines people get on top of their mouths when they smoke too much which is exactly what Denny’s makes me think of. And um well I just hope you still remember all the promises you made me because I’m gonna make sure you uhh, is that a bag of dog shit?”
You make sure I’m done and then say: “It’s stuff you left in my house.” We pause, and laugh. And pause again. I want you to keep it all, but I probably need whatever’s in there. I want to ask why you put it in one of those bags they give out in park so people can clean up after their dogs. More importantly, why you even have one of those bags, since you’ve never had a dog. You hate dogs. My things are going to leave your house. Why do all the parts of me that lived with you fit in a tiny plastic bag? No amount of dwelling made me want to cry. I tried to force tears. Just to feel normal. But taking this little plastic bag from your bigger hands is tearing me apart and all of a sudden I’m forcing back the tears I was trying to coax out half an hour ago.
You say there’s lots stuff for pancakes in the cupboards if I know how to make them from scratch.
The floor is cold against my bare feet.
“I need a recipe, or something. You can’t just make this stuff up.”
“You made me hungry,” you say with a distinctive pout.
“You’ve got a family of elephants sized bag of uh…” I’m bad with words. “Cereal.”
“No milk,” you retort.
“Um,” I don’t know what to say. We’re terrible at avoiding things. But we’re also terrible at talking about things.
“…let’s talk about you,” you’re probably trying to sound gentle. You just sound really quiet and difficult to hear.
“I’m leaving,” I offer.
“Yeah, lets talk about that.”
“How come?” I wonder if questions like this make me sound dumb. I know why, I just wanted to hear what you’d come up with. I know its my last chance to sink into your crazy mind and beautiful ways it works.
You seem to think about it forever. The look on your face is of pure concentration. “We’ve talked about breakfast a lot.” I wonder if things like that make you sound dumb.
“It never ends well.”
Silence.
“Ugh well,” I sigh. “Maybe people will laugh at my jokes where I’m going.”
You give me a distinct that was a joke? look. But all you say is “Okay.”
“I’m sorry. Let’s leave games out. Uh I mean, mind games. Or whatever.” I cringe. I hate this talk.
“Okay, what time are you going?”
“I guess whenever my parents get here. When you were little did you ever go to friend’s houses and hide there when your parents came to get you?” In the time it take you to process the information and answer me I’ve already made a bet with myself on the answer. It’s always something depressing.
“No,” You pause. “Didn’t have any friends.”
I think: called it. I say: “Yeah you did.”
“Well... I don’t know. What are you going to do in Hope?”
“High school.”
And it’s silence. And I say: “I feel like we should be cramming all the conversations we might miss out on in this time. Or something. We’re already out of things to say.”
“Um. I’ll miss you?” You sound wrong saying it. You’re not really a sayer, I guess. Mostly I’m just supposed to know.
“You know how I don’t like people to leave or things to change or end?”
“Yeah… I know that.” You’re speaking very sluggishly. Maybe I just forgot your voice.
“Well, ugh. This is like two ideas and I don’t know which to start with. Umm… Well I feel comfortable here. I don’t know I just like being here and it makes sense for me. I’m living here, uh I mean, not right here, but yeah I’m living here instead of staying here. Or something. So yeah it feels weird to be moving from you and… but that’s not the point. First, just, I don’t think that this should… be. People leaving or things changing or and end. Especially not and end.” I cringe more. The awkwardness does not mesh well with the desperation and fear I can hear in my own voice.
“Okay…”
“Please stay in touch… is what I meant.”
“Okay.”
“Oh but I think that you should know and I started before but it didn’t have anything to do with what I was saying but I feel weird that I’m the one that’s leaving. Like uh,” I stop to breathe. And try to figure out where the hell I’m going with this. “Well don’t you think it seems weird? Just ‘cause I’m usually the one… not leaving. You know, like I’m the one that’s… more dependent. And just always I’ve been, wanting to be around you. And you have more priorities kind of. Like uh a life for example, heh. And like, well. Yeah.”
You think, you think, you think. “If you didn’t leave next year I’d leave and you’d feel…” You think some more. “Left behind and… or bad about yourself when I move.”
“I’m used to that.”
And that's that. End scene.
I never noticed what bad talkers we were. But anyway it was hot in the car and stinky when we drove away and regret was a hot white pain in my forehead, or some dream I had. It was my jaw tight and stiff from Not Crying when I waved goodbye to you and then your house and then your town and then the tiny smudge on the horizon. Regret climbed off my shoulders and sank into my throat. She coiled herself into a collapsed supernova at the bottom of my stomach and slept there and sometimes she wakes up and digs long deep trenches in my insides with her ugly fangs. And sometimes I tell her to fuck off, that I’m not a halfway home.