The following is a short story that is still in the editing stages. It is about a boy that I shall call The Artist for now.
One Pink Rose
“This is for you. This way the flower will never
die.” he effortlessly said his probably well-rehearsed line as he handed me his
latest art project: a pink rose for me. The details were flawless and the paper
burned on the edges. He had listened when I told him I was in my pink phase.
Whatever I meant by that. Sometimes lines are delivered because they sound
good, like some dame in a 1960s movie who is as scattered as the record of men
whose company she has kept. It’s similar to posing for a picture that is never
going to be taken; instead you are writing dialogue for a movie that will never
be filmed.
I was a bit speechless. When it comes to cheesy
lines, I fall for them all. The delivery. The timed pauses. I suppose it’s all
a result of too many old movies and my repetitive swooning over Humphrey
Bogart’s seemingly candid brand of romance.
As soon as I could muster up the vocal power to say anything at all, I
murmured, “Thanks.” I snatched the rose
from between his long fingers before he could do much more than smirk at me. I
wondered what was going on behind his eyes and behind that gaunt face of his. I
realize that under my aloof, cat-like nature, I have feelings…feelings for him.
But did he?
He puts his bag in my room, pets my cat, and takes
off his shoes. He’s been here a couple
times before…always invited never a surprise. I watch his willowy figure and
sparsely tattooed arms amongst my things. Does he fit? Can his hands pull up my
cheetah print throw and fold it so that the feline is still comfortable on her
bed? Can he light the tea candles by my bed every night and listen to the
quotes of Kierkegaard that I wish to read out loud to collect his thoughts? But
more importantly, is he comfortable holding me every night: the right amount of
pressure to where I don’t feel suffocated but I do feel safe? Is he comfortable sleeping on a satin pillow
case and next to a poster-size print of Mulholland Drive? Both scenarios could
play out: he could become at home in my space and my scenery or we could be saying
goodbyes sooner than I wish. I’m not sure I want either.
Samo rubs against his leg, not so subtly asking
for his attention and I remark: “She seems to like you.”
“I have a way with cats.” he glibly offers.
“Sure you do.” There is more that I wish to say.
But my brain stops me short. That and the fact that my best friend, more often
than not, teases me about my catlike behaviors and demeanor. Do you want to be
affectionate towards me? I’m not in the mood. Do you want to be left alone? Pay
attention to me now. Are you reading that book? Pay attention to me instead.
Are you staring at me? Stop looking at me.
Always on the opposite end of the spectrum of you and always making you
wonder if I am purposefully being contrary.
He sits down on the couch and taps the cushion
next to him, asking me to occupy the space next to him. I do, apprehensively. I curl into him and
begin to breathe deeply as the opening sequence of the movie begins to sound. It doesn’t much matter what movie he has
chosen, I know that I am going to fall asleep within a matter of moments. No matter how much I struggle with insomnia,
the warmth of another being beside me makes me sleepily comfortable. That feeling of safety is even more
encompassing when it is radiating from a man that I hold high in regard. I wake up periodically to nothing more than to
check to see if he is still there and Samo is still within sight.
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| My top tracks: Pretty Face and Bad Dream |
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