"I used to think about dying in your arms."
I whisper into my coffee. It's not a bad morning— most mornings have treated me alright as of late. The sun shines through the half-parted curtains; You stand in front of the sink, hands busy in a racket of dishes and soap.
"—Not allowed to die. I know."
Your face is only half visible, bathed in newborn light. It burns a stray batch of baby hairs golden. I always wondered why you kept your hair bunched up like that: pulled into the world’s tightest low hanging ponytail. Traction alopecia fears you, I guess.
You pause. You turn. I expect a frown— I know the slight slant of your mouth better than I know all the state capitals. Which, in all honesty, isn’t saying much. I cheated when we were tested on it. I didn’t mean to cheat is the thing; A classmate saw my distress and took action: an answer sheet was dropped within the walls of my privacy shield. I could have ignored it, but I didn’t. Even if she didn’t know I didn’t want her efforts to go to waste. This is a lot to say that you smile at me. Quiet and gentle. I blink.
Dishes clatter. You wipe your hands on the available towel. Eventually, you pad your way over to the kitchen table and sit down. Again, you smile. I glance over at the window and I’m surprised to find it sunny. But, didn’t I know that already?
“So,” you start. For openers it’s not your best work. You’re trying, though; That should mean something. “How often did you think about dying?”
I trace the rim of my mug. It's cracked. "In your arms," I add, like it will change anything. It's important: to me, at least. The details.
Death still haunts me like a sock lost in a dryer. Sometimes its small: thoughts of crashes and accidents. Sometimes it's large. Grandiose. A bullet to save the day. A sickness that tears through the very fabric of my being. I consider each and every possibility as if it's something I have any choice in.
Your arms used to seem like the only destination. I'd wake up in them. Therefore, I would die in them. Perhaps it's childish but sometimes I'd think about saving your life. You would hold me— kind and shaking. I would say something that belongs in some cheesy action movie. You would laugh. I would join. You would cry. I'd reach up to swipe away a single, perfected tear. And, you would brush a kiss against the edge of my hairline.
"Have you gotten around to watching that poetry reading? The uh, ten minute one— that I sent you awhile ago." The evasion is clear as the stark, Summer brightness. Even if it feels like betrayal, I stick to it.
The expression doesn't stay long; Your eternal, nerdy grin returns like moth to flame. I feel sick, when I feel a smile work its way across my own face. I force a sip of my too dark too cold coffee.
"No..." You say, as if you're consoling a wild, frightened animal. Do you think I'll bite? Is that it? "I'll get around to it, I promise. Would you, um, send it again? It's been a bit."
I sigh. It has been two seasons. I have sent it to you every other week.
And, I will send it again.
Ten minutes pass. You look at me as if there's anything to see. I continue to choke down my coffee. I ignore how it itches at the back of my throat.
Sometimes I wonder if I matter to you. It's an idle wonder, really. Useless. You do the dishes. You smile at me. You let me babble nonsense about dying and arms. Of course I matter. Otherwise... Well. Otherwise.
Once more, I look up at you. With my gaze I trace the edges of your forearms. I think about how it would feel to bleed across your skin.
"I'm gonna go finish up those dishes," you say, almost sudden. I nod— as if I could change your mind. You stand up, push your chair in, and step forward.
Eternity is how long I wait, as you hover by my side. You reach forward. You hesitate. You do not brush a kiss against the edge of my hairline. You walk away.
"I love you," I mumble, as you return your arms to the sink.
A moment passes. I am used to the silence; I let myself indulge.
Dishes begin to clatter. I trace my cracked— not broken— mug once more. I think about taking a sip. I decide against it. You finally respond, voice light and casual. The light still basks your hair in a soft, sunset glow. "I love you too."
The worst part is that I believe you.
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