Cursive is still a thing, okay?

Month: September, 2013

I’m not cut out for this.

I stared at his little mustache and his slim little beard, the way they turn down into a hard U with his mouth – I stared at them for a solid three minutes this morning.  His room is one hundred years old, just like the house, and all of the light in his room comes in through the dirty window panes just behind my head.  The windows are like his headboard, but I’m the only one that really notices the windows and the morning light and the little prickly hairs.  

By habit, he sleeps with a “face shirt.”  To keep the light out in the mornings.  I could probably get myself a face shirt too, they’re strewn all about his room for easy pickings, but I like getting woken by the light.  I like the clarity it provides me when my eyes first open, even without my extremely strong glasses prescription sitting on the stool beside the bed.  I like that, without my glasses, I can see perfectly clear the moment I wake up.  I see half of his face, just there, lips lightly touching themselves with an air of confidence that evaporates the instant the face shirt comes off and he awakens.  I see the black little furs prickling into shapes, and prickling in places that don’t really make sense.  The little stache hairs over the upper left side of his lip are a little long, and I think about the tiny little scissors he uses to trim them.  

The disarray of his room, the shield of his shirt, and the protruding hairs all around his face, the hairs that have nothing to do with the mustache or the beard – I remember his shaking hands.  His hands shake a lot; he doesn’t believe me about getting enough protein.  I try not to tell him things like “You’re not eating enough protein,” because those are the types of things girlfriends say, because they kind of have a say.  I’m part of the room, I’m part of the disarray.  I’m not his girlfriend, I am his lover.  But that doesn’t make me any less of a person.  A person with a personality.  A personality that cares and gives, simply by nature.  I can keep coming to this room, and waking with this light.  I can keep my skin stuck to his skin in the sweat that comes with an old home, no AC.  But I can’t keep caring that his hands are shaky.  It would just help if he would stop telling me about his shaky hands.  Because then I think about them, and then I care about them, and then I feel more like a companion and less like a casual lover.  This is not good.


Sunday, January 10th, 2012.

There’s a small one-family home, older, with hard-wood floors, grungy walls, and no lighting, save for a strand of Christmas lights running through the main room and out onto the large back deck.  The house is void of furniture, as it’s all on the back deck to make a floor space for the show that will take place there that night.  It’s a college house that doubles as a venue for local musicians and painters.  The walls are covered with small, amateur canvases from past art shows, and the living room is filled with musical equipment.  There are voices muffled, coming from the back door when you stand inside.  The screen door smacks shut every 30 second when someone comes in, or someone goes out.  The backyard is filled with people.  The spring semester starts back the next day, and everyone who left town is now back.  The back deck is set up as a living room, with two couches and a coffee table.  People fill the couches, PBR cans litter the table, and the wooden porch railing is lined with perchers flirting with standers.  There’s music coming from a speaker somewhere.  It’s non-descript.  Our main character, Ashley, is perched on the arm of a couch, with her casted leg resting on the cushion next to her.  Her crutches lean on the railing behind her.  She’s comfortable there.  It’s her friend’s house, she knows all the artists, she knows everyone at the show.  She’s there with her best friend and roommate, Melissa.  Melissa is a small girl, with a sweet disposition and delicate features.  Melissa is Ashley’s chauffeur for the night, as it is Ashley’s right foot that is broken, and she can’t drive.  Ashley sips on a beer and laughs at something someone in the circle has said.  The scene goes back inside the house, where a van pulls up into the driveway, and four young men hop out and bring in their instruments.  There’s a poster on the wall advertising the event, the headline band reads: JOSE OYOLA & SAM PERDUTA, OF BERLIN, CT.  Out-of-towners.  The young men set down their instruments and walk out to the back deck, one in particular holding a bottle of whiskey they had all split.  His name is James.  He’s tall, dressed a little shabbily, and has burly-ish features, with soft eyes.  Cut to later in the night.  There’s music playing from in the house, but Ashley is still on the couch.  Melissa gets up to go to the bathroom.  James plops down in her place.

Tomorrow, I get to take my toothbrush to a boys house.  He told me I should.  He invited me to stay.  He wants me to stay.  He wants my teeth to be clean in the morning, because I will  be there in the morning, and that’s something he wants.  My toothbrush will be welcome in a boys bathroom.  

22 years old, and I may finally be starting my first decent relationship.  With toothbrushes, and a side of the bed that’s mine, mine, mine.