LJ Idol, Week 19 "Et Tu, Brute?"
His hands were what I loved the most, rugged and large. They were what drew me to him in the first place, sitting across from him at a bar, watching him watching the band. His fingers drummed against the sticky marble, and a tattoo was barely legible across each knuckle.
I moved in for a closer look, feigning the need to find a better view of the boys on stage. “Accidently” brushing against him as I made my way past, he turned and gave me the slightest smile. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was enough for me to make my move.
“Alice” I said, calmer than I felt, as I offered my only slightly damp palm.
He looked at me, eyebrow cocked, and said “James”, sounding more like a question than a statement.
I turned his hand over, and traced the solid black letters. His right hand read “Et Tu B”, his left “rute ?”.
“Shakespeare?” I asked, “Story of my life” he replied with a wink.
The band played behind us, but for three hours we talked. Talked about ourselves, our homes, our lives. 2am, closing time, our clothes barely stayed on the cab ride to his place. 3 weeks later I had moved in, just a few bags and my old gray dog.
We were honest with one another, we spoke only in truths. I hated his mother, his sideburns, his drinking. He hated my spoiled nature, my neediness, the smell of my feet. His hands on my chin were home, though, and every night dinner was on the table waiting for me. He loved the small of my back, my spirit, and how tiny my hands looked when wrapped around him.
We made a life. Through the fights and the drama, through the laughs on the couch. In 3 years there was not one night we spent apart, and it was impossible to imagine one of us without the other.
And then one day, something inside flipped. His touch made me cringe. His voice grated every nerve in my body. There was no actual explanation except to say I no longer loved everything about him, that I was no longer sure there was ANYTHING about him I liked.
And so, on an unseasonably warm February day, I packed one suitcase more than I had arrived with, not completely sure I was making the right decision, grabbed my much grayer dog, and gave James one last hug. He seemed unphased, a little sad, but not completely surprised.
I walked down the three flights of stairs, opened the door, and looked back up at the window. He sat there looking solemn, a childlike glare in his eyes. He called down, “Hey!”, and shoved his fingers against the window screen. I had to laugh a little, the only “fuck you” he could manage to give me. I put my bags down and called back, “Help me bring these things back up, will you?”
I moved in for a closer look, feigning the need to find a better view of the boys on stage. “Accidently” brushing against him as I made my way past, he turned and gave me the slightest smile. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was enough for me to make my move.
“Alice” I said, calmer than I felt, as I offered my only slightly damp palm.
He looked at me, eyebrow cocked, and said “James”, sounding more like a question than a statement.
I turned his hand over, and traced the solid black letters. His right hand read “Et Tu B”, his left “rute ?”.
“Shakespeare?” I asked, “Story of my life” he replied with a wink.
The band played behind us, but for three hours we talked. Talked about ourselves, our homes, our lives. 2am, closing time, our clothes barely stayed on the cab ride to his place. 3 weeks later I had moved in, just a few bags and my old gray dog.
We were honest with one another, we spoke only in truths. I hated his mother, his sideburns, his drinking. He hated my spoiled nature, my neediness, the smell of my feet. His hands on my chin were home, though, and every night dinner was on the table waiting for me. He loved the small of my back, my spirit, and how tiny my hands looked when wrapped around him.
We made a life. Through the fights and the drama, through the laughs on the couch. In 3 years there was not one night we spent apart, and it was impossible to imagine one of us without the other.
And then one day, something inside flipped. His touch made me cringe. His voice grated every nerve in my body. There was no actual explanation except to say I no longer loved everything about him, that I was no longer sure there was ANYTHING about him I liked.
And so, on an unseasonably warm February day, I packed one suitcase more than I had arrived with, not completely sure I was making the right decision, grabbed my much grayer dog, and gave James one last hug. He seemed unphased, a little sad, but not completely surprised.
I walked down the three flights of stairs, opened the door, and looked back up at the window. He sat there looking solemn, a childlike glare in his eyes. He called down, “Hey!”, and shoved his fingers against the window screen. I had to laugh a little, the only “fuck you” he could manage to give me. I put my bags down and called back, “Help me bring these things back up, will you?”