Windmilling, Ch. 5
Kevin is like a convenient canoe in the middle of the ocean, and you latch onto him so that you don't have to tread water anymore. Sitting safely in your little boat, you rest; the sharks seem a distant worry, and you have no fear of drowning.
At first, you only see him once a week, spending Friday afternoons in Starbucks or walking through the park. Guilt stabs at you sometimes, that you use him like a therapist, and you ask him one day while you're licking at ice cream cones, sitting on a park bench, why he allows you to ramble about thing that have no pertinence to his life.
He shrugs. "The fact that I like you hasn't changed. In fact, the more stories you tell me and the more I learn about you, the closer to you I want to be, the more I want to be nearby to take care of you. And it's not as if you're telling me how terrible your life is all the time. We went to a movie last week. And don't tell me there wasn't an entire afternoon when you brought comic books and we spent five hours reading them and talking about them." He seems pleased when you laugh softly. "I don't know about you, but I consider us friends, and friends help each other through the hard times too."
You know the words are cheesy, but the sentiment is appreciated. "When you first bought me that latte, were you hitting on me?"
His eyelids lower, his lips pursing together in what is commonly referred to as 'the look.' "You know I was hitting on you. You were the most gorgeous thing Starbucks has seen in years."
You realize by the way your face burns that no one has complimented you in a long time. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." He bumps his shoulder into yours. "May I ask you a serious question?" You nod. "Does Joe hit you?"
"No, never. He's just - I know I've been vague about why I have so many problems with Joe. He's not abusive; he doesn't hit me. He doesn't even talk badly to me." You're quiet. "I complain about him not loving me like I want him to but it's not even really that he doesn't love me. He's just - He's sick, and I'm a horrible person because I resent that I have to take care of him."
True to form, Kevin doesn't press or say anything that can even remotely sound condescending or lacking in support. He curls his arm around you, draws you in so he can press his lips to your temple. "Sometimes, you need someone to take care of you too."
"That's why I have you."
He smiles, which you appreciate, because he could react in so many other ways that you just don't want him to right now. "That's exactly why you have me."
That night, after he takes his sleeping pill, Joe accuses you in a snarl of not taking care of him like you should be, and you feel winded because your whole life is devoted to just that task. When you move in to hug him, to assure him that you will always be there to take care of him, he shoves you. You stumble to the floor, hit your head against the wall, and you know you can't cry because that won't be good for him.
When he has thoroughly occupied the bed, sprawled out in a sleep that's more like a coma, you call Kevin, and for the first time in a long time, you cry, your sobs slipping out of you on the backs of hiccups, and you fall asleep, curled on the floor to the sound of Kevin's voice murmuring against your ear.
At first, you only see him once a week, spending Friday afternoons in Starbucks or walking through the park. Guilt stabs at you sometimes, that you use him like a therapist, and you ask him one day while you're licking at ice cream cones, sitting on a park bench, why he allows you to ramble about thing that have no pertinence to his life.
He shrugs. "The fact that I like you hasn't changed. In fact, the more stories you tell me and the more I learn about you, the closer to you I want to be, the more I want to be nearby to take care of you. And it's not as if you're telling me how terrible your life is all the time. We went to a movie last week. And don't tell me there wasn't an entire afternoon when you brought comic books and we spent five hours reading them and talking about them." He seems pleased when you laugh softly. "I don't know about you, but I consider us friends, and friends help each other through the hard times too."
You know the words are cheesy, but the sentiment is appreciated. "When you first bought me that latte, were you hitting on me?"
His eyelids lower, his lips pursing together in what is commonly referred to as 'the look.' "You know I was hitting on you. You were the most gorgeous thing Starbucks has seen in years."
You realize by the way your face burns that no one has complimented you in a long time. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." He bumps his shoulder into yours. "May I ask you a serious question?" You nod. "Does Joe hit you?"
"No, never. He's just - I know I've been vague about why I have so many problems with Joe. He's not abusive; he doesn't hit me. He doesn't even talk badly to me." You're quiet. "I complain about him not loving me like I want him to but it's not even really that he doesn't love me. He's just - He's sick, and I'm a horrible person because I resent that I have to take care of him."
True to form, Kevin doesn't press or say anything that can even remotely sound condescending or lacking in support. He curls his arm around you, draws you in so he can press his lips to your temple. "Sometimes, you need someone to take care of you too."
"That's why I have you."
He smiles, which you appreciate, because he could react in so many other ways that you just don't want him to right now. "That's exactly why you have me."
That night, after he takes his sleeping pill, Joe accuses you in a snarl of not taking care of him like you should be, and you feel winded because your whole life is devoted to just that task. When you move in to hug him, to assure him that you will always be there to take care of him, he shoves you. You stumble to the floor, hit your head against the wall, and you know you can't cry because that won't be good for him.
When he has thoroughly occupied the bed, sprawled out in a sleep that's more like a coma, you call Kevin, and for the first time in a long time, you cry, your sobs slipping out of you on the backs of hiccups, and you fall asleep, curled on the floor to the sound of Kevin's voice murmuring against your ear.