Latest Posts
Favorite Old Chestnuts
Contact Me
Sites I Like
Archives
something was flickering on the television, but the evening we'd planned was pushed aside for serious conversation. it happened so rarely between you and i; when it did come about, everything outside the two of us was in my eyes inconsequential.
we sat on the couch, that couch i knew so well. the dirt of my life, of your life, of the lives of everyone who knew you and used you and came to you was piled up in the creases of the gray cushion cover. i slept here some nights, because you were too angry or too tired to deal with me. i slept here some nights, because i was too scared to crawl into bed with you. i might be rejected. i slept here some nights because you were so large, so overwhelming in your sleep - all heavy limbs and slick sweat like some horrifying aftermath - that i would awake pinned to the wall, unable to breathe and unable to wake you.
you were sprawled per usual, the size of you intimidating to the entire house. i was curled as small as possible, per usual, taking up as little space as i could so i wouldn't accidentally brush against you. this way i could be both close and careful, feel your heat without making you startle - sometimes the sensation of skin against your own skin made you angry.
this is what you said: what are you going to do?
i curled my toes tightly against the rough cushion, studied my flat feet and long toes next to yours. you pressed the sole of one foot against the sole of mine and i unfurled a little, aching.
this is what i said: with my life?
your affirmation wasn't really needed; we both knew i was only stalling for time. you waited, breathed, and asked me what it was i wanted.
i smiled, looking under my eyelashes at my belt, at my knobby knees.
this is what i said, and i meant it more than you'll ever know: i want a garden.
your surprise delighted both of us. you huffed out a short laugh, reached out a hand and squeezed my bare ankle. a garden, you said, shaking your head. you rolled us both cigarettes and considered this with smoke curling around your face.
it seemed so obvious at the time. a garden meant stasis, it meant home. it meant i'd be staying for a while. it was everything i'd been wanting since the long drive across the continent, in those four syllables.
after a minute, you put down your cigarette and turned to face me squarely. you can use my backyard, i wouldn't mind. i pictured it, trying not to let you see that i was having trouble breathing. that all i wanted in the world was to jump on you, kiss every part of your face i could reach. that tiny square of grass behind your house, it would be filled entirely with my flowers.
yeah. i'd be staying for a while.
Labels: old chestnuts
posted by lindsay at 21:55 ::
6 Comments:
The correct answer was five syllables.
Your next question:
"See Spot _____."
By 
Frank Charlemagne, at
10:16 PM
And I said that, of course, with all respect and affection, and every intent that we'd all be better for it.
By Frank Charlemagne, at
10:17 PM
i think i'll leave the mistake for posterity.
ah, how circular our lives are.
you put victrolas/phonographs on your page. :)
By furious_rose, at
1:30 AM
yeah...i'm pretty sure you deserve thanks for the inspiration.
Hello there
Lovely writing.
And thanks for the link!
BG
By billygean.co.uk, at
6:08 PM