Thursday, 18 February 2010

Rich (Or How To Set Us Apart)

"You will never be a part of this world. My advice to you would be to leave. Don't even try."
"That's not an option I would like to exercise."
"You're not taking this seriously."
"That is not true. I mean it as seriously as I can."
"Not seriously enough."

She picked at the butt of the spent cigarette, wondering whether his name started with an A, or an E, or a J. His blue eyes wandered around the room, stopping repeatedly at the smouldering stick balanced lopsidedly on the ashtray rim, refusing the urge to take another drag, or three.
"So, anyways. There I was..."
"Your stories are so dull. Why must you make me sit through them?"
"They don't need to be exciting. This situation we find ourselves in, it does away with the desire for spontaneous rapture."
"That's not what I meant. Your words do not portray the electricity rushing through your skin. Why is that urgency in your touch lost in your mouth, in your mind?"

She sketched her thoughts in slanted cursive, not looking at the shapes left when her ink dried. Her thoughts were lost in black and blue, but she'd know where to find them when she looked. She picked at the scab, as he picked at cold leftovers.

"Don't ever speak to me again. Don't say a word. When you come, I want you to touch me. I want you to see me, and dance with me, but I can do without the sound of your voice. These cold nights aren't for words. Yours, or mine."

He reached up to fix the sky a little, and stoked the fire dying in their bellies.

"Come. I don't want to sleep alone tonight."

He remained silent, while his hands did the talking.

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