Here, there was luminal tension, unopened mail left scattered on a counter-top, hands clenching at the sound of footsteps. Nothing was getting better.
There should be no dance this clumsy, this wasteful. Spring rejected both of them.
He, for his part, moved through the world with an excess of energy, bubbling over into the next rooms, loud even in sleep. Clouds shifted when he went outside; the sun burning mist away where he shuffled through the patchy grass. There were war noises wherever he was, his head the echo chamber, body peppered with buckshot scars. Kneeling in surrender, he shoved everything away.
“I still want whatever you might give me,” he’d say, settings spoons on the stove, boiling water while she curled up on the chaise and cried.
There was green on the porch, a carefully cultivated jalapeño plant, wispy chives, mint with ragged leaves; the garden of two novice cooks. They still ate together; he wanted to get rid of the table, citing space. Bent at a right angle over the dark wood, she focused on piles of brown tissue jacket patterns and rolled her eyes hard enough to hurt.
She, she was the one unbending. Snuggled together, she was as still as prey, felt his twitches and fidgets, wondered how to make him catch up without running, wondered if she was capable of Relationship. Usually silent outside her head, she made way for disturbed schedules, late night work sessions, touching him with the same love she had for her sewing machines.
“I make you my top priority, but I know you don’t think like I do,” he’d say, punching on the X-Box while she stared out the patio doors, calculating how far was away.
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