When I met her we were both nothing but sharp corners and nerve endings, like right angles and circuit boards. I’d been uneasy for an entire season. I liked her because she didn’t mind. She’d sit right next to it with her own uneasiness and made everything almost bearable. We’d just watch the other breathe and make comments about how no one knew what to do. We were both having a time. Separate and yet together, company you can’t help but keep. There were a few things I noticed about her once I noticed she was there. For one, I never heard her come and go. She either slipped through cracks in the windows or slept at the foot of the couch, curled up like a lap dog whistling dixie in her sleep. Another was that when she spoke there were strong undercurrents, almost a riptide, that would drag me by the heels from where ever I was to where ever she was. I found it refreshing almost, to get consumed in anything other than my own aftermath, to sit with her and hers while the sun came up. Sometimes she sat so still that I’d become convinced she was a projection, light bouncing around the room like a bird stuck inside.
Published by Erin Rose Belair
I write because maybe you have felt this way as well. Because none of us truly love or ache alone. View all posts by Erin Rose Belair