I have been lying like this for more than two hours. On my back and staring right at the ceiling and wondering about things to say. We had made love, quite a few times and then some more. But since I turned my back on him he has kept quiet. Very quiet and very still. While blowing away smoke and shifting my gaze to the side wall, I talk. I talk to him about several things, things that bother me and the ones I love. I tell him a story of how I liked playing houses when I was young. Though it wasn't exactly houses, but that is one game I enjoyed the most. I would dress up as a young bride, waiting for her husband. The other girl, as my husband would come and hit me. I asked her to. So when the hitting and cursing was over, I made her throw herself on me and as my husband, force me. I kept on elaborating my game of houses, and he kept listening without any reaction. I tried reaching for his hand all this while, but I was too busy holding the smoke.
I keep quiet for a while, and kept waiting. Supposing he fell asleep, I started confessing, and talking about other things. I told him which I would rather never dare. So I closed my eyes, and slipped into nostalgia, recollecting reminiscence of Happenings. Despite the silence, I began to feel a cold tension in the room. So, to avoid any further diversions I began another tale. This time it was longer, and I was older. I started with the tale of my parent's marriage, how they fell in love and how happy they were. I think I felt his smile in the air. With that assurance and comfort, I went on to elaborate their love and affection. How he liked to caress her before sleep, and how dedicated she was for his happiness. How their first child was brought in with great care and love, and how their warmth almost killed him. But I skipped that part, and jumped on their happiness over my birth. They called me their gift, as my mother had prayed for a girl after the first boy got lost. I told him all the gifts they got me, all the presents they built around and all the other people they brought. They celebrated this much awaited child, while the lost one, sat quietly near a pool. Well, I liked the attention I believe. But I tried to make him understand how it was unhealthy and why did it had to stop. Instead I continued narrating, it was very rare to find him as a listener. So my parents, I believe were too happy, and they left me with strange men. And as soon as they came to get me, I wonder why didn't they see, anyways I never wanted them to see.
I shift the topic, he seemed like he was getting bored. Though my back was still towards him, but I felt his presence. I didn't stop. I told him of the many nights, my mother waited on the bed. And the many nights, my father spent on other beds. Interestingly, I kept a picture of those women, I supposed if he asked me 'Why?' what would I answer. So I confessed, that I liked collecting souvenirs. From every woman I kept something, like from one I had a gown, from another I had a picture, a letter from someone else and a book from the other. I collected what they left behind, like my mother gathered me as a souvenir he left behind. I felt the air getting tensed, so I chose some funny stories to get rid of the thickness. I told him of my first flight, my first dive, first ride and first kiss. Even though he didn't laugh, I believe he must have felt amused.
This was the first time I ever talked, and surprisingly he let me. He didn't ask a question, neither sought an explanation, and after many years I fell in love with him again.I felt like the young girl who wasn't afraid and who never cared. I had a man who cared. I had a man who loved. So I decide I need to kiss him, and just as I turn, the stillness of his body frightens me.
I check his heart and breath for conformation, so still. Everything, every part, every organ, every movement, every contour..so still. I run my hand through his eyes to shut them, they don't seem warm. He had been dead for some time. My man, lying lifeless, cold, pale..without the slightest bit of warmth, heard me. He heard it all, listened to my stories and didn't ask. He didn't ask about the women my father slept with, he didn't ask about the men who took care of me, he didn't ask about the lost brother neither did he ask about my mother. He heard me, while I smoked my troubles away. I look at him, and remember a fat dead dog I saw on a road once. Death makes you tiny. So little and so harmless, so perfect.
My perfect man, lying lifeless...so still.
I keep quiet for a while, and kept waiting. Supposing he fell asleep, I started confessing, and talking about other things. I told him which I would rather never dare. So I closed my eyes, and slipped into nostalgia, recollecting reminiscence of Happenings. Despite the silence, I began to feel a cold tension in the room. So, to avoid any further diversions I began another tale. This time it was longer, and I was older. I started with the tale of my parent's marriage, how they fell in love and how happy they were. I think I felt his smile in the air. With that assurance and comfort, I went on to elaborate their love and affection. How he liked to caress her before sleep, and how dedicated she was for his happiness. How their first child was brought in with great care and love, and how their warmth almost killed him. But I skipped that part, and jumped on their happiness over my birth. They called me their gift, as my mother had prayed for a girl after the first boy got lost. I told him all the gifts they got me, all the presents they built around and all the other people they brought. They celebrated this much awaited child, while the lost one, sat quietly near a pool. Well, I liked the attention I believe. But I tried to make him understand how it was unhealthy and why did it had to stop. Instead I continued narrating, it was very rare to find him as a listener. So my parents, I believe were too happy, and they left me with strange men. And as soon as they came to get me, I wonder why didn't they see, anyways I never wanted them to see.
I shift the topic, he seemed like he was getting bored. Though my back was still towards him, but I felt his presence. I didn't stop. I told him of the many nights, my mother waited on the bed. And the many nights, my father spent on other beds. Interestingly, I kept a picture of those women, I supposed if he asked me 'Why?' what would I answer. So I confessed, that I liked collecting souvenirs. From every woman I kept something, like from one I had a gown, from another I had a picture, a letter from someone else and a book from the other. I collected what they left behind, like my mother gathered me as a souvenir he left behind. I felt the air getting tensed, so I chose some funny stories to get rid of the thickness. I told him of my first flight, my first dive, first ride and first kiss. Even though he didn't laugh, I believe he must have felt amused.
This was the first time I ever talked, and surprisingly he let me. He didn't ask a question, neither sought an explanation, and after many years I fell in love with him again.I felt like the young girl who wasn't afraid and who never cared. I had a man who cared. I had a man who loved. So I decide I need to kiss him, and just as I turn, the stillness of his body frightens me.
I check his heart and breath for conformation, so still. Everything, every part, every organ, every movement, every contour..so still. I run my hand through his eyes to shut them, they don't seem warm. He had been dead for some time. My man, lying lifeless, cold, pale..without the slightest bit of warmth, heard me. He heard it all, listened to my stories and didn't ask. He didn't ask about the women my father slept with, he didn't ask about the men who took care of me, he didn't ask about the lost brother neither did he ask about my mother. He heard me, while I smoked my troubles away. I look at him, and remember a fat dead dog I saw on a road once. Death makes you tiny. So little and so harmless, so perfect.
My perfect man, lying lifeless...so still.
*deep sigh*
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