(no subject)
he lit the match, and she watched his pupils contract. time had eaten away at the other candles, all lined up in a crooked row; the other objects in her room had all gathered, gradually and without a pattern, to watch as this sacrificial group deteriorated under the weight of motion.
when she watched him talk, she would look just below his eyes, trying not to look for something she could recognize. she would tell him on the phone quietly, "please come home," and he would, when he needed to. she lived for when he set fire to things, when he would make this thumb-smudge of a city light up for a brief moment, like a shiny gold filling.
whatever in his life that he had broken, he had paid for, with no outstanding debts and no broken connections. he still had the names of everyone, their no-longer-current numbers and addresses tucked into a small notebook. he clenched his teeth as the flame climbed onto the wick.
"ride on josephine" was playing on the jukebox in the corner of the restaurant downstairs, where there was no one eating. people used to come here at all hours of any day, to eat or talk or just sit. but a cold wind had blown through the open door one day with teeth blaring, and people just started leaving.
the two of them sat there each night waiting for the last candle to burn down, so that they could sit together in the dark and finally look at each other again.
when she watched him talk, she would look just below his eyes, trying not to look for something she could recognize. she would tell him on the phone quietly, "please come home," and he would, when he needed to. she lived for when he set fire to things, when he would make this thumb-smudge of a city light up for a brief moment, like a shiny gold filling.
whatever in his life that he had broken, he had paid for, with no outstanding debts and no broken connections. he still had the names of everyone, their no-longer-current numbers and addresses tucked into a small notebook. he clenched his teeth as the flame climbed onto the wick.
"ride on josephine" was playing on the jukebox in the corner of the restaurant downstairs, where there was no one eating. people used to come here at all hours of any day, to eat or talk or just sit. but a cold wind had blown through the open door one day with teeth blaring, and people just started leaving.
the two of them sat there each night waiting for the last candle to burn down, so that they could sit together in the dark and finally look at each other again.