Fucking with perfect posture.

 

We have nothing in common but the sheets that we lay in this morning. She is this and I am that and the silence confirms my suspicions. Her hair is clean; bright, shinning, long and every strand lies out on the pillow before me. It doesn’t smell like the hair of other girls. There is no scent to it. It doesn’t smell like lavender or lilacs or apples, or conditioner. It’s just clean and without smell. I think she slept the entire night with her back to me. 
Early this morning I drank the water she set on her night stand for herself, I took the glass into the kitchen and filled it twice from the faucet. I rinsed the hangover from my mouth in her bathroom. I splash water on my face. All of her towels match and the rugs match, the shower curtain and her toothbrush holder. Everything is neat and scented and well placed. I use a hand towel to dry my face and try to fold it back on the rack, but it doesn’t look right and I wonder if she’ll notice. 
I can’t go back to sleep now, I lie in bed; my chest is pressed to her back. My lips and chin rest on her shoulder. I put my hand on her hip. I want her to wake, to wrap her fingers between mine and pull my arm around her. She could kiss my wrist and talk. About anything, it doesnt matter. She could talk about the same inane shit we spoke about last night.
Last night, nothing worked. We shared an awkward hug and small talk, very-small talk. We never have anything to talk about. Our eyes dont agree and we smile for different reasons. When we talk, I try to meet her halfway. I read each word she speaks but it grows difficult with each drink. She starts playing with my hair and rubbing her face on my cheek. I dont know if she is being mean, teasing me, flirting or what. So, I keep drinking. I wander off and find my friends. The next few hours I spent huddled with friends or talking to girls I didnt want to talk to and sneaking glances at her. Watching her talk to guys that I hoped she didnt want to talk to. I watched her; with her friends, sipping drinks, smiling, posing. 
Her skin is warm; it is young, unscarred, without blemish. Im not comfortable with her occupying my thoughts this morning. 
I am never comfortable in the early hours because Im always the first one up. So I think about quietly leaving. I could collect my shoes and gently dig through the sheets for my t-shirt. If I left right now, I would lock the door from the inside to make sure I didnt change my mind. But as I think about leaving I realize that I didnt drive here.
When she wakes up, she looks at me over her shoulder and rubs her foot up and down one of my legs. She presses close for a minute and then gets up, leaves the room. Even when shes close, she leaves an abysmal gap. 
Nothing about her impresses me ever. I can never remember what she wore the last time I saw her or what shes said. She is dry. When she laughs she stifles it, as if shes taking it back from you. I sit in the kitchen drinking her coffee and reading through fashion magazines. Waiting for her to drive me back to my car. I eat handfuls of her diet cereal and give myself personality quizzes from her latest issue of young and modern. 
On her kitchen table next to me she has laid out her resumes and portfolio. She flips through photos and holds negatives up to the kitchen window, studies them for a second and then tucks it all between the leather and zips it up. She is standing with her keys in hand. Im sitting drinking coffee. She just looks down at me; its an empty gaze. Its her expression for everything, cold and expectant. It makes me feel out of place. 
The winter has left us and there is rain drying on the sidewalks and driveways. As she drives out of the parking lot her exhaust leaves clouds of smoke, they hang for a second with the cold morning and I can smell the oil on damp pavement. She will sit in my mind for several days, maybe weeks. I will drive home and feel good about this all day. I will phone Dan and brag in detail. I will throw my t-shirt to the floor throw both arms up in fists and smile to myself in the bathroom mirror. Pride and conquest play massive roles in every mans life, but it means nothing. We wont talk or see each other often, if at all. We are not friends or lovers, we just are. We have nothing between us but former exchanges and memories. This, is not bad or good. It just is.

One response to “Fucking with perfect posture.

  1. nagaraj

    mind blowing

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