LJ Idol Week 11 - Recency Bias
You want to appreciate the moment for what it is, for the sound of his voice as he sings in the kitchen, weaving his tanned and shirtless body around the small island. You want to enjoy this snapshot of your movie-perfect life, even in the heat of the small apartment you own together, the press of sun-warmed concrete around you, the windows pushed open to let in the summer breeze and the distant sound of traffic. It’s crucial, you think, to hold this moment because it’s one of so very few, now, the rare occasions when you have him to yourself, when the tension isn’t tangible between you, and you even allow yourself the belief that the evening won’t be ruined by harsh words and slammed doors.
But then he looks up at you, his “aw, shucks” smile and sapphire eyes, his tousled hair and brush of stubble, and all you can see is his lips on your sister’s throat, his fingers clenched into her hips, his body intertwined with hers with the demanding possessiveness you thought was reserved only for you. And when he slides across the kitchen, takes you by the waist and lifts you to bridge the gap in your height, kisses you as if he's not seen you in years, you find yourself trying to remember for the hundredth time whether he’s wanted you like that since.
You snap back to the moment when you realize he’s speaking to you, riddling off the glorious dinner he’s made, how he drove across town to the wine and cheese shop you love for that particular bottle of local pinot gris that makes your toes curl with delight. He pours a glass while he speaks, takes a cheese tray from the fridge. Every slice is cut with precision and arranged meticulously on the crystal serving block his mother gave you as a housewarming gift, and you don’t have it in you to tell him that you’ve never liked pinot gris.
He asks you how your day was as he pulls out a stool at the island, and your ears are roaring. This is the struggle, the noise in your head, the tightening of your chest when he tells you how beautiful you are today. Because you know there is a sharp and bitter side to his honey tongue, you know that he can yell, that he can scream, that he can spit poison and lies as easily as he promised in front of everyone he knows that he would love you forever. And when he stands behind you and kisses the back of your neck, the burn and ache in your skin is how your body reminds you of that sharp impact of his palm on your cheek, the horrified sting of tears in your eyes, the weight of his betrayal and his anger on your heart.
A fruit fly moves lazily in a low path over the cheese, and his hand shoots out from beside your shoulder to catch it in mid-flight, crush it against his palm. You flinch away out of instinct. He doesn’t notice, this time.
This week's entry was inspired by the song "Roads" by Portishead. Much love to theun4givables for using her Pandora's Box power to give me a spot back in the game, after I bowed out previously on my "secret" account abigailendersby. It's good to be back, and to give it another shot with a bit more confidence. :)
But then he looks up at you, his “aw, shucks” smile and sapphire eyes, his tousled hair and brush of stubble, and all you can see is his lips on your sister’s throat, his fingers clenched into her hips, his body intertwined with hers with the demanding possessiveness you thought was reserved only for you. And when he slides across the kitchen, takes you by the waist and lifts you to bridge the gap in your height, kisses you as if he's not seen you in years, you find yourself trying to remember for the hundredth time whether he’s wanted you like that since.
You snap back to the moment when you realize he’s speaking to you, riddling off the glorious dinner he’s made, how he drove across town to the wine and cheese shop you love for that particular bottle of local pinot gris that makes your toes curl with delight. He pours a glass while he speaks, takes a cheese tray from the fridge. Every slice is cut with precision and arranged meticulously on the crystal serving block his mother gave you as a housewarming gift, and you don’t have it in you to tell him that you’ve never liked pinot gris.
He asks you how your day was as he pulls out a stool at the island, and your ears are roaring. This is the struggle, the noise in your head, the tightening of your chest when he tells you how beautiful you are today. Because you know there is a sharp and bitter side to his honey tongue, you know that he can yell, that he can scream, that he can spit poison and lies as easily as he promised in front of everyone he knows that he would love you forever. And when he stands behind you and kisses the back of your neck, the burn and ache in your skin is how your body reminds you of that sharp impact of his palm on your cheek, the horrified sting of tears in your eyes, the weight of his betrayal and his anger on your heart.
A fruit fly moves lazily in a low path over the cheese, and his hand shoots out from beside your shoulder to catch it in mid-flight, crush it against his palm. You flinch away out of instinct. He doesn’t notice, this time.
This week's entry was inspired by the song "Roads" by Portishead. Much love to theun4givables for using her Pandora's Box power to give me a spot back in the game, after I bowed out previously on my "secret" account abigailendersby. It's good to be back, and to give it another shot with a bit more confidence. :)