forget you’re not as strong as you show on the outside. I’m sorry.”
Alex steps back into bed and wraps his arms around me. He rubs my back and shoulders up and down as if I need warming up. I always thought an apology would seem empty after the way I’ve been feeling lately. But, surprisingly, it has given me hope. I feel hope . And it’s exactly what I need to replenish what we had. Because what we had was precious.
About a year or so after Tessa was born, we used to set our alarms for an outrageous hour of the morning, to make sure we were awake before her. Sometimes we didn’t even speak. We would just lie there, touch each other’s skin, stroke each other’s cheeks, our hair, or warm our hands between each other’s thighs. We didn’t make love. We didn’t have to. Being awake in each other’s presence was enough—to remind ourselves that we existed. Even if we drowned in chaos in the outside world, we knew that in here, in our tiny cocoon of ‘us time’ at the crack of dawn, we were together, and that was all that mattered. It represented love in its most simplest form—Me. Him. Us. I want that back. We can get that back ...
“Mel?”
I look up and touch my nose to Alex’s chin. “Hmm?”
“How soon would you like that gig?”
PART TWO
Please Don’t Break Me
A puncture wound, will never heal
its hole forever hollow
Can’t fill the void or roll the wheel
or flee its crushing sorrow
Chorus:
You might wanna mask it, patch it
get it stitched up and cleaned
You might wanna fill it, peel it
or sew it up into seams
Pretty girls with bouncy curls
They trigger long lost dreams
Oh oh. Oh oh.
No sticks or stones, or brittle bones
Don’t aim to crack my knees
No, oh, oh, oh.
Chorus
Soothing words aren’t set in stone
Should I believe in you?
Should I believe?
Or will it end with me in bed
Feeling torn and bruised?
Please don’t break me.
Chorus
Ten
Selflessness. An animal instinct; an innocent whim, present only in a child. An unconditional inclination to assist without personal gain. For an ape, that’s life. But for us, as we grow old, our naive allure toward altruism; our aspirations to aid anyone in need, abates. We keep tabs on each other’s behavior, and feel proud about what we give only when the favor is returned. Always anticipating the arrival of “the one” to accept us for who we are; all future action expectation-free.
Yes.
Expectation -free.
As certain as the fact that a guitar needs strings to make sound; as pleasant as the muffled silence after screeching amplifier feedback.
I stare at Alex until he opens his eyes—hoping his enthusiastic offer to secure me a gig is void of agenda. My instinct tells me he either wants something or is hiding something. The latter being the strongest jackhammer in my gut. It’s been drilling so many holes in me lately that I’ll soon need a colostomy bag.
When did I start thinking nice gestures must be spiked with impure intentions?
“Happy birthday,” I whisper as if a ‘sweet nothing’ and nibble his earlobe. The bed linen crumples. A spring pings: a faerie soul puncture stifled in cotton wool. If Tessa had the vocabulary, that’s what she’d say the noise is.
With a groan, Alex stretches his arms; his walnut shell elbows blending in with his pale bed-sheet wrinkled skin. “Mmm, thanks, babe. I’m forty fucking years old.” He kisses my cheek—lips so coarse they could sand away the cracks in the ceiling. He should drink more water. He should look after himself better.
“So? You don’t look a day over thirty-five … and once you wake up a little and the pillow imprints have disappeared from the side of your face, you’ll probably look thirty-two,” I say with a wink, thinking he looks more like forty -five.
It was only a year ago that I thought he could still pass as thirty. How did he age so quickly? Is life beginning to burden him? Am I? Am I now
Alex steps back into bed and wraps his arms around me. He rubs my back and shoulders up and down as if I need warming up. I always thought an apology would seem empty after the way I’ve been feeling lately. But, surprisingly, it has given me hope. I feel hope . And it’s exactly what I need to replenish what we had. Because what we had was precious.
About a year or so after Tessa was born, we used to set our alarms for an outrageous hour of the morning, to make sure we were awake before her. Sometimes we didn’t even speak. We would just lie there, touch each other’s skin, stroke each other’s cheeks, our hair, or warm our hands between each other’s thighs. We didn’t make love. We didn’t have to. Being awake in each other’s presence was enough—to remind ourselves that we existed. Even if we drowned in chaos in the outside world, we knew that in here, in our tiny cocoon of ‘us time’ at the crack of dawn, we were together, and that was all that mattered. It represented love in its most simplest form—Me. Him. Us. I want that back. We can get that back ...
“Mel?”
I look up and touch my nose to Alex’s chin. “Hmm?”
“How soon would you like that gig?”
PART TWO
Please Don’t Break Me
A puncture wound, will never heal
its hole forever hollow
Can’t fill the void or roll the wheel
or flee its crushing sorrow
Chorus:
You might wanna mask it, patch it
get it stitched up and cleaned
You might wanna fill it, peel it
or sew it up into seams
Pretty girls with bouncy curls
They trigger long lost dreams
Oh oh. Oh oh.
No sticks or stones, or brittle bones
Don’t aim to crack my knees
No, oh, oh, oh.
Chorus
Soothing words aren’t set in stone
Should I believe in you?
Should I believe?
Or will it end with me in bed
Feeling torn and bruised?
Please don’t break me.
Chorus
Ten
Selflessness. An animal instinct; an innocent whim, present only in a child. An unconditional inclination to assist without personal gain. For an ape, that’s life. But for us, as we grow old, our naive allure toward altruism; our aspirations to aid anyone in need, abates. We keep tabs on each other’s behavior, and feel proud about what we give only when the favor is returned. Always anticipating the arrival of “the one” to accept us for who we are; all future action expectation-free.
Yes.
Expectation -free.
As certain as the fact that a guitar needs strings to make sound; as pleasant as the muffled silence after screeching amplifier feedback.
I stare at Alex until he opens his eyes—hoping his enthusiastic offer to secure me a gig is void of agenda. My instinct tells me he either wants something or is hiding something. The latter being the strongest jackhammer in my gut. It’s been drilling so many holes in me lately that I’ll soon need a colostomy bag.
When did I start thinking nice gestures must be spiked with impure intentions?
“Happy birthday,” I whisper as if a ‘sweet nothing’ and nibble his earlobe. The bed linen crumples. A spring pings: a faerie soul puncture stifled in cotton wool. If Tessa had the vocabulary, that’s what she’d say the noise is.
With a groan, Alex stretches his arms; his walnut shell elbows blending in with his pale bed-sheet wrinkled skin. “Mmm, thanks, babe. I’m forty fucking years old.” He kisses my cheek—lips so coarse they could sand away the cracks in the ceiling. He should drink more water. He should look after himself better.
“So? You don’t look a day over thirty-five … and once you wake up a little and the pillow imprints have disappeared from the side of your face, you’ll probably look thirty-two,” I say with a wink, thinking he looks more like forty -five.
It was only a year ago that I thought he could still pass as thirty. How did he age so quickly? Is life beginning to burden him? Am I? Am I now
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