(no subject)
His hands are on her temples.
His fingers feel sweaty and cold. Just like a man's hands.
It's hard to swallow. She feels the sharp taste of copper run down her throat, which could mean that she's bitten her tongue. She remembers things while she's sitting there with his hands to her head ("Why do you have to have them on my head?" "It--it helps me think.")), like how when she was four she lost her first baby tooth because she fell off the plastic see-saw in her backyard, and how even while the blood had rushed out of the small stump where her tooth had been, she couldn't help tasting the place where it was, over and over again.
"My head is not Disney world," she'd told him, over coffee (he took his black; she added too much sugar, shaky hands).
"Neither is mine," he'd told her, looking at her solemnly.
They are sitting in his car.
It takes her a minute or two to start breathing again, because this is not loose baby teeth: this is her mind and the way it works, split into two, unstable, unbeautiful, not her, not her at all, because she might be ugly on the inside but fuck it she's still beautiful on the outside, bruises and all --
Pain writes itself across his face and he breaks back, but she manages to breathe again, and the voice is gone. Locked up. Alone. She is all alone.
He leans against the car door and closes his eyes, gripping the car seat.
She moves forward to kiss him but ends up kissing his nose because of the way he's angled. "I'll buy you donuts," she says, her voice breaking, just a bit.
"Okay," he says, and smiles despite the pain, and she's beginning to feel the bruise on her head from the concussion again. "I like green sprinkles."
He pushes back some hair from her face.
--
They get donuts and eat them in the backseat of his car. At first she's in the front seat, but she ends up climbing into the backseat alongside him, because her head is empty and she feels numb and cold.
"You eat donuts weird," she tells him.
"What?"
"You're eating them wrong."
"I like the icing first."
"Weirdo!"
Then she starts laughing because she realizes what she's just said, and he grins at her painfully through a mouthful of sticking chocolate icing with some dots of green color, and that just makes her laugh harder. A big belly laugh, the kind she hasn't had since Micah accidentally sprayed the cat with the hose last summer when he was watering the rose plants in her mother's backyard.
He makes a noise that sounds like he wants to talk. "Swallow first," she says, giggling, and she thinks that she's managed to make herself sound like a freakish mixture between valley girl and strict mother.
He swallows. "How's your head?"
She thinks for a minute. "...Empty."
He nods, and starts devouring some more icing. It takes her a minute to realize that they haven't eaten since coffee this morning, which explains why she's been eating donut after donut after donut. "We're going to make ourselves sick!"
He looks quizically at her, and she clarifies, "All these."
"There's this theory," he says, and swallows, "that I have. About the fact that that saying 'Too much of anything is bad for you'? Is totally wrong. Utterly, absolutely wrong." He pauses. "You have chocolate on your nose."
She blinks and goes cross-eyed looking down and laughs at herself and places a sticky finger on his nose. "There. You too. Brownnoser."
They giggle like schoolchildren and it feels good.
Tomorrow they will drive back to the hotel where Micah is doing spelling homework that he doesn't need to do and tomorrow she will need to be a grown-up; but today she can giggle and lick chocolate from his nose and watch him melt under her hands, and it will all be okay.
Today, she does not need to feel guilty. Today, she is someone else. Someone good.
His fingers feel sweaty and cold. Just like a man's hands.
It's hard to swallow. She feels the sharp taste of copper run down her throat, which could mean that she's bitten her tongue. She remembers things while she's sitting there with his hands to her head ("Why do you have to have them on my head?" "It--it helps me think.")), like how when she was four she lost her first baby tooth because she fell off the plastic see-saw in her backyard, and how even while the blood had rushed out of the small stump where her tooth had been, she couldn't help tasting the place where it was, over and over again.
"My head is not Disney world," she'd told him, over coffee (he took his black; she added too much sugar, shaky hands).
"Neither is mine," he'd told her, looking at her solemnly.
They are sitting in his car.
It takes her a minute or two to start breathing again, because this is not loose baby teeth: this is her mind and the way it works, split into two, unstable, unbeautiful, not her, not her at all, because she might be ugly on the inside but fuck it she's still beautiful on the outside, bruises and all --
Pain writes itself across his face and he breaks back, but she manages to breathe again, and the voice is gone. Locked up. Alone. She is all alone.
He leans against the car door and closes his eyes, gripping the car seat.
She moves forward to kiss him but ends up kissing his nose because of the way he's angled. "I'll buy you donuts," she says, her voice breaking, just a bit.
"Okay," he says, and smiles despite the pain, and she's beginning to feel the bruise on her head from the concussion again. "I like green sprinkles."
He pushes back some hair from her face.
--
They get donuts and eat them in the backseat of his car. At first she's in the front seat, but she ends up climbing into the backseat alongside him, because her head is empty and she feels numb and cold.
"You eat donuts weird," she tells him.
"What?"
"You're eating them wrong."
"I like the icing first."
"Weirdo!"
Then she starts laughing because she realizes what she's just said, and he grins at her painfully through a mouthful of sticking chocolate icing with some dots of green color, and that just makes her laugh harder. A big belly laugh, the kind she hasn't had since Micah accidentally sprayed the cat with the hose last summer when he was watering the rose plants in her mother's backyard.
He makes a noise that sounds like he wants to talk. "Swallow first," she says, giggling, and she thinks that she's managed to make herself sound like a freakish mixture between valley girl and strict mother.
He swallows. "How's your head?"
She thinks for a minute. "...Empty."
He nods, and starts devouring some more icing. It takes her a minute to realize that they haven't eaten since coffee this morning, which explains why she's been eating donut after donut after donut. "We're going to make ourselves sick!"
He looks quizically at her, and she clarifies, "All these."
"There's this theory," he says, and swallows, "that I have. About the fact that that saying 'Too much of anything is bad for you'? Is totally wrong. Utterly, absolutely wrong." He pauses. "You have chocolate on your nose."
She blinks and goes cross-eyed looking down and laughs at herself and places a sticky finger on his nose. "There. You too. Brownnoser."
They giggle like schoolchildren and it feels good.
Tomorrow they will drive back to the hotel where Micah is doing spelling homework that he doesn't need to do and tomorrow she will need to be a grown-up; but today she can giggle and lick chocolate from his nose and watch him melt under her hands, and it will all be okay.
Today, she does not need to feel guilty. Today, she is someone else. Someone good.