It was always at this point, right after he made love to her, that Matthew felt he belonged to the world. He put his arm around Martha in the creaky twin-size bed. In the corner of the room, blood-red candles created heavy tears of wax that dripped onto the oak dresser. Serenity had soaked through Matthew's being. He rested his nose in the hollow of her collarbone. The absence of blinds allowed the bold moonlight to flow through the room. It refracted over her pale skin, which now appeared to be a shade of blue Matthew had never witnessed in the natural world.
He closed his eyes and let his mind drift to thoughts of the approaching winter. His computer, just next to the foot of the bed, gave a chime, bringing him back to his room and his bed and his Martha.
"Christ. I'm sorry, baby," he whispered as he gathered his stark-naked body and knelt by the laptop. An instant message read: "Yo Matt! Party at Jills. U in?"
He turned and looked into her eyes. They were fixed somewhere between the light switch and the door. He arched his back so their sights were locked.
"Sorry, man. Next time," he typed with machine-gun speed. "What do you want to listen to, love?" he asked Martha.
Silence reverberated around the walls.
"Really?" he said with a chuckle. "OK, you got it." He set his iTunes and shuffled back over to her, accidentally knocking over the lipstick and eyeshadow on his desk. He payed it no mind, and pulled the covers over the two of them. He closed his eyes again and began to brush her light-blonde hair from her forehead to behind her ear, and then back over her eye. Forehead, ear, eye. Again and again and again...
He listened to the music attentively:
The pains of love, and they keep growin'.
In my heart, there's flowers growin'
on the grave of our old love.
And after hearing those words, he turned onto his other side, placing his back to hers. It was cool like a glass pane. Serenity had left him now and put defeat in its place. He gazed out the window into the empty November night. How long would it be like this? How long could it be like this? All things, even love, must decay.
In life, and in death, all things must decay.
Little red flakes gathered at their feet: the red polish was chipping off of her toenails. He would reapply more paint in the morning.
KILLING IT, DAVE. Apparently I have a blogspot thing too--that's somehow attached to my gmail.
ReplyDeleteGood work!