Lj Idol Week 10- Sticks and Stones
He watches me when I’m sleeping; he’s kind of like Santa Claus in that way. I pretend I don’t know that he’s there, pretend I’m unaware of his face back-lit by the moon as I undress. I loved him, once, the way you love a beat up old blanket that’s been there from your first moment. It was a love that went unexpressed, a love I didn’t realize I would miss.
I left my father’s home at 17, headed straight for anywherebuthere, and landed a job waiting tables in a crummy diner. Micah followed me, and though I pretended not to know him half the time, secretly I thrilled at his sleeping body on my worn couch.
We ate breakfast together every morning- hot oatmeal and cold juice, always in silence. Micah was never one for banter, pointless conversation made him irrationally angry and so we chewed without so much as a word passed between us. In the 7 months we lived together, the silences became so comforting, so inviting, that I dreaded being around other people and their inane babble.
He left, suddenly, in the middle of the night, and I was lost. I had never felt his hands on my body, nor his breath on my neck, and yet the loss of his soft footsteps on the wooden floor left an aching inside deep enough to make me feel split in two.
It was a year before I saw him again. I had moved to another town, one which was smaller and had the constant scent of cabbage in the air. My apartment was one room, with a small fire escape I liked to use as a smoking lounge. Drinking a glass of lemonade out there, I looked across the alley and there he was- shaggy hair, dark circles under his eyes where sleep had evaded him. No hugs or sounds of joy from either of us. I simply opened my front door, and he took his place on the couch as though he had never left.
This pattern continued, he’d leave without warning, I’d move, and some time later there he would be. I never questioned how he found me, content to know he would always just be there.
There was only one time when I tried to make him touch me, wanted him to physically fill the hollow his leaving left inside. Coming out of the shower one night, I left my towel behind, and walked out in front of him. He stared only into my eyes, never allowing me to see his want. I took his hand and placed it on my breast, letting him feel my heart. Magic passed between us, a tangible burst of electricity was in the air. I made the mistake, then, of taking my hand from his and the moment became real. Micah was up, making his way to the door, as I stood there with tears in my eyes.
I waited. I waited years for him to show up again, as was his way. I left forwarding addresses, moved less often, settled eventually in the west. He had always come to me, until the day I finally welcomed him completely, and he no longer needed to search.
Last year my father sent me a card with a picture of barren trees on the front. The blank inside of only a newspaper clipping with perfect cut lines. “Local man, Micah Rhodes, found at bottom of Lake Reardon with large stone tied to waist.” The picture accompanying the article looked nothing like I last remembered him- here was a man staring at me with sad eyes, though the Micah I knew was never anything more than a boy. That hollow he once started turned into an abyss, and peace became impossible. Only the memory of his hand held briefly under mine, and that newspaper article taped to my window allowed me to sleep at night.
I left my father’s home at 17, headed straight for anywherebuthere, and landed a job waiting tables in a crummy diner. Micah followed me, and though I pretended not to know him half the time, secretly I thrilled at his sleeping body on my worn couch.
We ate breakfast together every morning- hot oatmeal and cold juice, always in silence. Micah was never one for banter, pointless conversation made him irrationally angry and so we chewed without so much as a word passed between us. In the 7 months we lived together, the silences became so comforting, so inviting, that I dreaded being around other people and their inane babble.
He left, suddenly, in the middle of the night, and I was lost. I had never felt his hands on my body, nor his breath on my neck, and yet the loss of his soft footsteps on the wooden floor left an aching inside deep enough to make me feel split in two.
It was a year before I saw him again. I had moved to another town, one which was smaller and had the constant scent of cabbage in the air. My apartment was one room, with a small fire escape I liked to use as a smoking lounge. Drinking a glass of lemonade out there, I looked across the alley and there he was- shaggy hair, dark circles under his eyes where sleep had evaded him. No hugs or sounds of joy from either of us. I simply opened my front door, and he took his place on the couch as though he had never left.
This pattern continued, he’d leave without warning, I’d move, and some time later there he would be. I never questioned how he found me, content to know he would always just be there.
There was only one time when I tried to make him touch me, wanted him to physically fill the hollow his leaving left inside. Coming out of the shower one night, I left my towel behind, and walked out in front of him. He stared only into my eyes, never allowing me to see his want. I took his hand and placed it on my breast, letting him feel my heart. Magic passed between us, a tangible burst of electricity was in the air. I made the mistake, then, of taking my hand from his and the moment became real. Micah was up, making his way to the door, as I stood there with tears in my eyes.
I waited. I waited years for him to show up again, as was his way. I left forwarding addresses, moved less often, settled eventually in the west. He had always come to me, until the day I finally welcomed him completely, and he no longer needed to search.
Last year my father sent me a card with a picture of barren trees on the front. The blank inside of only a newspaper clipping with perfect cut lines. “Local man, Micah Rhodes, found at bottom of Lake Reardon with large stone tied to waist.” The picture accompanying the article looked nothing like I last remembered him- here was a man staring at me with sad eyes, though the Micah I knew was never anything more than a boy. That hollow he once started turned into an abyss, and peace became impossible. Only the memory of his hand held briefly under mine, and that newspaper article taped to my window allowed me to sleep at night.