i loved her for the fire and you for the call
For the third night in a row I found myself in bed with her, our limbs intertwined, the only light in the room coming from the muted television's screen, the only sound being the low, constant ground note of the small fan at bedside punctuated rhythmically by her breathing as she slept. I didn't. My heavy, tired eyes moved slowly from the TV to the ceiling to her face and then back again when I grew conscious of looking at her for too long. Bartenders often develop an aversion to being stared at, and since we both have been in that line of work for the past year, we try not to stare at each other too much, even while the other is asleep and unaware. Besides, that would be inimical to the careful game we have been playing with each other for the last three months. Looking too much for too long might imply an interest more than what we could safely admit to. That almost ended the game once before...we can't do it again, not this early.
But what is this game? That's what was keeping me awake. Thinking about it, and trying not to think too much about it. Why do we give each other false, lesser motives for doing certain things together, motives we suspect are intentionally made out to be more shallow than they actually are, but wouldn't dare mention the suspicion about to one another and just choose to simply play along? What exactly is the attraction when the list of common interests runs so short? Why must it be done this way?
I came across a word tonight that I'd never known before. ''Limerence.'' And suddenly this game makes a hell of a lot more sense.
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I fell asleep and my dreams were vivid and cruel. Things that had happened, things that had not. Nothing unusual there. But the black thing again. Much larger and more frightening than usual. It started as it always does, a small, vague dark spot in the vision field of whatever dream I'm having, and it grows larger and wider, long tendrils 360 degrees out turning everything black until all that is left is a nothingness that I can still sense the presence of. It rushes at me fast and I wake up every 20 minutes with a start. Repeat. And any faces present in my dreams become hideous, huge black holes for eyes and mouths, grey and black and dark blue shades on everything. Mouths open, screaming with no sound, names and words sometimes, this time the name ''Belial.'' Had to look that one up too...I had forgotten what it meant.
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I know we should still be together. And I'm sorry you only have me. But like you said, you need another freak to talk to. Obviously you've still got one here. Yes, I'm a bastard and a sweetheart, and I think you're hopeless and a liar and a fool and about as close to an angel as one can get. I also hope you're sleeping well, that you manage to get the paint out of your sophisticated belly button, and that you have a slight hangover at work.
And sorry, but I've grown weary of censoring myself, either from those who would perceive wrongly and judge accordingly or from those who are simply too stupid to help themselves and just turn away.
As if we really care what people think, anyway.
But what is this game? That's what was keeping me awake. Thinking about it, and trying not to think too much about it. Why do we give each other false, lesser motives for doing certain things together, motives we suspect are intentionally made out to be more shallow than they actually are, but wouldn't dare mention the suspicion about to one another and just choose to simply play along? What exactly is the attraction when the list of common interests runs so short? Why must it be done this way?
I came across a word tonight that I'd never known before. ''Limerence.'' And suddenly this game makes a hell of a lot more sense.
---------------
I fell asleep and my dreams were vivid and cruel. Things that had happened, things that had not. Nothing unusual there. But the black thing again. Much larger and more frightening than usual. It started as it always does, a small, vague dark spot in the vision field of whatever dream I'm having, and it grows larger and wider, long tendrils 360 degrees out turning everything black until all that is left is a nothingness that I can still sense the presence of. It rushes at me fast and I wake up every 20 minutes with a start. Repeat. And any faces present in my dreams become hideous, huge black holes for eyes and mouths, grey and black and dark blue shades on everything. Mouths open, screaming with no sound, names and words sometimes, this time the name ''Belial.'' Had to look that one up too...I had forgotten what it meant.
---------------
I know we should still be together. And I'm sorry you only have me. But like you said, you need another freak to talk to. Obviously you've still got one here. Yes, I'm a bastard and a sweetheart, and I think you're hopeless and a liar and a fool and about as close to an angel as one can get. I also hope you're sleeping well, that you manage to get the paint out of your sophisticated belly button, and that you have a slight hangover at work.
And sorry, but I've grown weary of censoring myself, either from those who would perceive wrongly and judge accordingly or from those who are simply too stupid to help themselves and just turn away.
As if we really care what people think, anyway.