The Things That Go Unsaid
She lets out one final gasp, and watches his rigid body go limp between her legs before rolling off next to him and she nuzzles up till her lips are just below his earlobe, till he can feel her short hot breaths on his neck and she can feel a his two-day scruff on her lips and she whispers, “I love you.” But do I?
Smiling, he makes room for her and looks straight into her dark eyes. “I love you too,” he says. I hate lying.
“That was good.” She means it, but that’s all it is now—the rush and as soon as it comes it’s lost in the fog of memory. God damnit. How long do I have to put on this fake grin and stare at him? The clock on the floor reads 8:43 AM in large red numbers. Fuck it’s early; I just want to go back to bed. The clock paints the room in a red glow and she doesn’t notice the three-year-old old high school pictures tacked up on the wall, dull in the digital light. She doesn’t take pictures anymore. Her eyes creep away from his, over a pile of dirty laundry, and toward the David Beckham poster on her closet door. I should paint my room purple. Purple would be nice.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks, still smiling. I don’t care.
She wants to say, “I don’t love you,” but the only thing that comes out is, “You…and your perfectness.” Fuck that’s not even a word. Whatever…he’ll think it’s cute…pussy.
He gives her a wink, “Awww, thanks babe.” Perfectness? That’s not even a word. What an idiot. He sits up in bed and runs a hand over his stomach. I should eat something.. I can’t believe it’s been three and a half years. He followed her gaze. She is staring at David Beckham again. I wonder what its like to dropkick someone? He looks back into her eyes, searching for something lost. It was great at first—the rush—the high of being lost in her, and her in me. The halogen light from the kitchen outlines the door of her bedroom. Maybe a sandwich would hit the spot. She never has anything interesting to say anymore. I wonder if she has beer in the fridge. I bet she does—probably a few lite beers. She’s obsessed with carbs. Fuck, I have to get ready for class. Can I stop smiling now?
Everyday she has a break for lunch between her twelve o’clock and two o’clock classes, and day after day, he is waiting for her on the same white marble rock in the quad and today is no different. She sees him glance down at his cell phone to check the time and then turn to face her as she walks out of the building and she tries to wipe the bags from under her eyes. He smiles and waves. Look at that stupid grin. He’s an asshole. I don’t like his face anymore—his asshole face.
He holds out his hand, and gives her a kiss, “How was your day?” I’m so fake.
“Good.” I’m so fake.
She takes his hand as they walk in silence to lunch. He can’t make me laugh anymore. If it’s codfish day again I’m going to puke.
“Cat and David invited us to dinner tonight. You want to go?” he asks. Please say no.
“Uhhh... Yeah, sure. Sounds like fun,” she says. He would get mad if I said no.
People she knows come up and say hello. They always tell her how much they envy her relationship—her stability. “Three and half years, or has it been four now? That’s really amazing. You two must really be in love...I wish I could find someone like that,” they say; or something along those lines. Her hand in his, she looks up and down the brick sidewalk running through campus. She sees two people playing Frisbee with a dog, a couple watching the autumn leaves fall from the tree they are sitting under, and a group of friends sprawled out on the grass, listening to some guy with dreadlocks play the guitar. If they only knew I envy them. If they only knew of these words of hate bleeding from my mouth only to scab at his ears. If only they knew the things that go unsaid.
They get home from dinner and she leads him by hand into the bedroom. Her roommate is gone. She doesn’t come around much anymore. He locks the door. There is a mattress on the floor—she waits for him in it.
“Did you forget it?” she asks. I’ll kill him if he did.
“I got it, I got it.” he pulls out what looks like a small leather CD case from his inside jacket pocket. Finally. He carefully places it next to her thigh, and her eyes watch every move.
He runs his hands up her sides as he takes off her shirt, his fingers gliding over her protruding ribs and she shivers from the chill of his fingers but extends her left arm beckoningly. Beginning at her wrist, he kisses up her arm following a trail of purple veins, stopping at the patch of crusted blood glued to the crease of her elbow.
She lights a candle. Yessss.
He unzips the case. Working by candle light he flicks a measured amount of white powder into a spoon and holds it over the flame. Orange light dances off the walls, playing games with the darkness. Her sunken eyes never veer from the spoon and the flame.
She bites her lip. “Me first,” she says, as she tightens a belt around her left arm.
“I know,” he murmurs watching the powder melt, and then drawing the liquid into the syringe.
She closes her eyes as he puts the needle to her arm, first drawing blood. He takes a second, admiring the peppermint swirl in the syringe, then pushes the mast down.
He does the same for himself.
Holding hands, they loosen the belts together and as they exhale, collapse into each others arms and they melt into each other and the rhythm of their heart beats become one and their eyes meet inches away and they hypnotically gaze into each others dilation. She is lost in him, and he is lost in her.
“I love you,” she says. I love him.
“I love you too,” he says. I love her.
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