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"i’m going to paul’s" she says,
she shifts her weight to get up and the mattress responds. leaving ruffles in her flower-printed blanket, tiny mountains towering over a cloth landscape.
and i watch her from the bed as she gets up to leave,
she looks at me and i pretend not to see her, suddenly full engaged in whatever fucking commercial is droning through the airwaves at the moment.
she puts on her shoes, and i turn to her, she casts no shadow under her bedroom celling fan lights. i catch her features and i’m lost for a second. only a second. she glances around the room, scanning the walls and picks up her purse. rummaging through its contents, she finds her key. absentmindedly fingering it, her eyes holding out on something, something featureless; too thin to be dignified with anything other than a slight acknowledgment.
the soft curve of her nose, the crease as skin folds between her eyebrows, strands of hair slightly touching her cheek.
only for a second, then turns away. some emotion apparent in her face, however, it doesn’t seem necessary for me to figure out which emotion this is. standing at the doorway, she turns her head slightly back to me, needing some conformation she’s not a ghost.
I stare with a blank expression, back through the grey skies buried in her sockets.
“hope it’s bitchin’” is what i find myself saying.
i see the pause in her expression as she accepts what i’ve said to her. i switch my gaze back to the television set in the corner of her room, and see her blur out of vision in my peripherals.
I want to be close to her, feel her warmth in my arms as we drift silently in her bed. lose track of her as i fade into sleep, and come back into this world while still holding onto her.
and i ask myself, how many times are you going to lay in her bed and watch as she leaves to spend the night with another man?